


The Circus

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Circus Performers, Loathe my OCs - kick rocks, M/M, Or you can just read it instead of making me spoil all of it in tags, So the OCs are in this one, Well a circus takes a lot of people, i'll add tags as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-02-28 13:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18757657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I DON'T WRITE FLUFF BUT THIS IS PROBABLY AS CLOSE AS I'LL EVER GET“Fuck you lookin’ at Raggedy Andy?” his head hasn’t turned, his eye contact hasn’t faltered from the girl above them.“Raggedy Andy?”Now his head turns. Ian takes a step back, as though his full-on beauty reached out and shoved him. His brows are risen, his gorgeous lips are pursed and he scans Ian over cooly before scoffing and looking back towards the ceiling, “prefer Raggedy Ann or what? Redwood? Matchstick? Spitfire? Carrot top? Bushfire? Agent Orange?”“Okay, okay. I get it.”“Scarlet fever? Copper nob? Tampon top?”“Alright,” but he snickers, wondering if he let him go, how long it would take before he ran out, “Ian works.”He shrugs, none of this has effected his rhythmic swaying, “I kinda like Firecrotch.”





	1. The Aerialist

The Aerialist

 

It’s not that impressive. That’s Ian’s first thought. It’s not that impressive. Without the lights and the glitter. Without the music and the stands full of children. Without the smell of popcorn wafting through the arena. 

It’s not that impressive. It’s just a bunch of scrubby looking people setting up equipment. Performers without the sparkle and glitter of show dress. Without the make-up, without the show smiles. They’re just people. People in warm-ups, average looking people with massive amounts of talent. Stretching, chatting, sipping coffee, throwing treats to the show dogs. Various languages weaving together into just a din of noise. The smell of the elephants, camels, and tigers. Ian is terrified of the tigers. He saw them stalking around outside the building earlier in the day. They’re beautiful, it’s true, but they’re much too intimidating. He has yet to meet their handler, he has yet to meet anyone really. 

A girl in the center ring catches his eye. An aerialist. Her hair is raven black, skin pale and eyes so blue they’re mesmerizing. She’s working her way through her routine. Her body lines are perfect, her muscles stringy and strong. Her face relaxed, at ease even in the most difficult positions. She looks at home there. Just a girl on a tricot nylon. He finds a smile rising on his face as she twirls delicately down to the ground, into the steadying hands of a sturdy muscular man. 

The man says something to her in what sounds Eastern European. She rolls her eyes at him and he laughs. The laugh sends a prickle of goosebumps down Ian’s spine. He feels his body instinctively move closer to the sound. Watching as he cups his hands and gives her the boost back to her proper starting point on the silks. When he leans back to start guiding the fabric, and the side of his face becomes visible Ian nearly chokes on his own breath. The beauty in his structure. 

His coloring is the same as the girl’s. Jet black hair. Smooth porcelain skin. Eyes, a sparkling blue crystal. HIs hands are tangled in the silks, his fingers thin and gorgeous. There’s something tattooed on his flesh, but he can’t make out the letters from this distance. Following the trail of nylon, his forearms. Muscles taut as he guides the rhythm for the girl. Every single line of his upper arm, his shoulders, visible. Carved from stone. 

Ian’s body is still moving. Slowly moving towards the man. Without his control, without his permission. Close enough now that he can see a perfect smattering of freckles on his shoulder when his sleeveless shirt shifts as he swings the silks. His neck is so white it’s nearly translucent. Every vertebra visible beneath his flesh. And a scar, it looks like a surgical scar appears as the collar dips when he pulls back on the fabric. 

He realizes when it’s too late that he’s gotten too close. He’s crept too far. There’s no way he hasn’t been noticed yet, but the man hasn’t turned his head. Gaze still aimed at the girl on the ropes. 

He takes a deep breath. Say something Ian. Don’t be a creep, just say something. Or watch the performer. It’s okay to gawk at someone doing something cool. But it’s not okay to gawk at someone who is doing no more than turning a tricot nylon for an aerialist.

“Fuck you lookin’ at Raggedy Andy?” his head hasn’t turned, his eye contact hasn’t faltered from the girl above them.

“Raggedy Andy?” 

Now his head turns. Ian takes a step back, as though his full-on beauty reached out and shoved him. His brows are risen, his gorgeous lips are pursed and he scans Ian over cooly before scoffing and looking back towards the ceiling, “prefer Raggedy Ann or what? Redwood? Matchstick? Spitfire? Carrot top? Bushfire? Agent Orange?”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

“Scarlet fever? Copper nob? Tampon top?”

“Alright,” but he snickers, wondering if he let him go, how long it would take before he ran out, “Ian works.”

He shrugs, none of this has effected his rhythmic swaying, “I kinda like Firecrotch.”

A blush creeps into his cheeks when the guy eyes him with a cocky smirk, scanning head to toe before his focus lands on the girl again. He’s completely lost words, and his eyes refuse to leave the guy’s face. He has never in his life, seen anything like this man’s face. It is artwork is what it is. Like someone put together the most beautiful facial features that exist on this planet, crafted by hand and brought to life by wizardry or fairy magic. He feels himself smiling at the image of a perfectly crafted and fired clay man being brought to life by the tap of a wand to the tip of his nose. 

His nose. Nostrils flared now as his eyes flit over Ian again, “asked you the fuck you’re lookin’ at.”

“Nothing,” he stutters it. Sweat has created a slick on his palms even though his skin is racing with goosebumps every time that crystal gaze flickers across his face. His arms cross over his chest and he forces himself to look up, to watch the performer. Practicing her show. The original thing that drew his attention this way. 

“That ain’t gonna save ya,” calling Ian’s bluff, “gawkin’ at my sister. Maybe you should just push the fuck back, huh?”

She twirls to the ground, to his waiting hands and she smiles at him. Her smile is pretty, kind of meek, but Ian’s certain it’s gorgeous when it’s unrestrained, “you one of the Gallaghers?” she wonders, wiping her hands on the towel tucked into her brother’s pocket.

“Yeah, Ian.”

“Ian,” she extends her hand, “I’m Mandy.”

“Mandy,” he smiles, her hand is delicate feeling inside of his, something warm and comforting about her presence, “you’re talented.”

“Well from what I hear, you are too,” her elbow meets her brother’s arm, “the Gallagher Troupe Mick. They’re the new high wire act.”

He snorts an unintelligible response, then announces, “this was nice and all Firecrotch, but you’ll have to take your gawkin’ act elsewhere.”

Dismissing Ian with a brow, fuck, Ian wants to reach out and run a finger along his brow line, “nice to meet you,” he manages to stutter out towards Mandy while he backs away. 

She repeats the sentiment with a smile, as he turns away she lays into her brother in what could be Russian, Croatian, Polish? Damn, he’s going to have to ask Lip to scout these two out a little bit. 

“Dude,” it’s Carl that finds him first, bumping into his shoulder with that psycho glee in his eyes, “you were just talking to Mikhailo. What’d he say to you? Did you get his autograph? Did you shake his hand?” he’s reaching for Ian’s hand, like he’s going to wipe the guy’s handshake off his palm and keep it for himself.

“Who? No, and he didn’t say anything really.”

“Who?! Mikhailo Milkovich! The tiger trainer! He’s like the main attraction! Who?” he scoffs, “you’re like the least observant person on the planet.”

“That guy is the main attraction?”

“Yeah, how the hell did you miss all the posters they were setting up on the way in? Or the giant cardboard cutout of him and Zlata by the ticket stand?”

“Zlata?” his stomach does a little flip, is he married?

“The Siberian Tiger?” Carl’s hands fly up to his forehead in frustration, “sometimes I feel like I’m talking to a foreigner when I talk to you!”

Ian snickers, “ditto,” clamping down on his shoulder.

“Are you assholes done chit-chatting, going to get over here and help secure these ties?” the unlit cigarette balanced in the corner of Lip’s mouth as he cooly scans his brothers over.

“Make it quick, we still have to do a run-through and we only have an hour until the performers' meeting,” Fiona reminds them from where she’s stretching, her head upside down, body bent in half, peering at them through her knees, “first time with a new show, we need to be on our game.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ian responds with his most convincing showman’s smile and a bow. He gets to work on the tie downs furthest away from Lip, situating himself to glance across the rings at the black-haired crystal-eyed beauty that his mind has begun to run circles around. 

It only takes about ten seconds of gazing towards him before his eyes dart Ian’s way, brows up, lips pursed, even from this distance a clear read of ‘quit fuckin’ gawkin’ at me’, as his hand releases the silks just long enough to flip Ian the bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a few things about this if I went anywhere with it:
> 
> 1\. It would be way out of my realm so it would rely heavily on imagination (yours and mine).  
> 2\. If Mickey is the tiger man, he'd obviously be treating them humanely.  
> 3\. I'm pretty sure Frank would be a clown.  
> 4\. I could drag the entire cast into it. Even some old OC's if I wanted.  
> 5\. My one and only literary experience with circuses is Water For Elephants, and I read that years ago. I'm not even sure I remember any of it. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!  
> Oh, and check me out writing a line for Lip - I think it was okay?  
> I'm really just riding a wave of 'it's Spring and I can't focus', but I think I might have a few more chapters out for the current Freedom work before the end of the week.  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Baton Twirler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple introductions.

The Baton Twirler

 

His right hand extends. Sliding over her large, soft head as she nudges against his leg. He sits on the bars of the gate, letting her rub and smell until she’s content. 

“Valentyna,” he sighs, dropping into the pen alongside her. She’s the most stubborn of his three. The least predictable. The least likely to let anyone else near her. He eyes the slit in her right ear from her previous trainer. He opens his hand to her when she nears him. Her breath lingers on his palm as her body slides alongside his and she saunters off to the far side of the pen, “don’t gotta be like that Val.”

She turns her back, sits down, and watches through her enclosure.

“We’ll get these shows done. Right? No problems?”

Last weekend she snarled at the crowd. He had to remove her from the second act, “we’ll get these shows done, and we’ll get out for some better exercise. Sound good? We’ll find a nice open space and we’ll run. How’s that sound? Huh?”

She lays down with a groan. 

“I know. But the show must go on. You want to sit this one out?”

He squats down, letting her know that she’s in charge here, “your choice. I’m not gonna make it for ya.”

Her big head turns to look over her shoulder at him. 

“Hey, I’m tired too. The lights, the noise, the crowd. I’m fuckin’ spent. And we’re only halfway through the season.”

She blinks a long slow blink, her pink tongue unfurls, sliding over her paw.

He lowers himself the rest of the way to the floor mat. On his butt facing her, “I thought we had that foot all taken care of Val.”

She sets it down, resting her chin on it and watching him.

“Okay. Why don’t you rest tonight, huh? We’ll talk to Ms Bodnar first thing tomorrow about your foot, k?”

He gets up slowly. Keeping her eye contact until he turns to climb the gate. Passing a few more scraps of food through the bars to her, “good girl,” sliding his fingers over her head. 

————

“Oleksandra,” he sing-songs to her as he approaches her pen, “protector of man, snow white coat and blue eyes,” he finds her easily in the dimness of her enclosure. She moves quietly but there’s an easiness to her strut. An openness displayed prominently every time she hears his voice, “ooh, aah, she’s so pretty,” he mimics the tiger gazers at every show, “look at her eyes. Look at her fur. Look at her big paws,” lowering himself off the gate as she rubs her head along his knuckles, “look at how pretty she is.”

She loves the attention. She loves the compliments. And on show nights, she loves the lights, “hey pretty girl,” his palm slides the length of her body as she slinks past his legs, “it’s almost showtime. I know you’re ready. I don’t have to tell you twice,” she eagerly nuzzles her nose into his open palm, “diva,” he scoffs at her.

————

She’s already up and waiting at the gate. She smelled him immediately when he entered the container, “Zlata. There’s my girl,” climbing the gate without hesitation to run his hands over her head, leaning his face down to her level for kisses, “how was your dinner? You show-ready, huh? Yeah you are. Of course you are. If it means gettin’ it over with, huh? Just you, me, and Ollie tonight, that okay?”

She sits back on her haunches between Mickey and the gate at the sound of someone approaching. The figure is tall, muscled, and obnoxiously leggy, “yo Pretty Boy, you missed the meeting,” lips risen to her natural smirk as she strides over, sliding a hand through the rail for Zlata, “Katze,” palm open and waiting. 

“Go ahead,” his permission all it takes for the big cat to land her nose right in Lou’s open hand.

“There we go,” her long skinny fingers tracing along Zlata’s stripe down the center of her head, “the fuck were you doin’ that was so important you couldn’t be bothered with the performer’s meeting?” 

She’s costumed already, a black robe draped over her shoulders. He shrugs, “makin’ sure my girls were comfortable.”

“Ain’t that your brother’s job?”

He snickers, both of them knowing that his brothers are only along for the ride. The glitz and glamor of fifteen minutes of fame. It comes with it’s share of free women, and Mickey ain’t interested in women. He can’t trust his brothers fully with the cats needs, but he can trust them to drive the trucks. Get them to the next show on time. The next town, or city, or Fair grounds. Eleven months of every year on the road, they all blur together into an endless supply of screaming children, clapping parents, flirting teenagers, drunk college kids. Lights, noise, glitter, music, laughter. Popcorn, cotton candy, snow-cones. Overpriced piece of shit toys that the kids can’t get enough of. 

When the lights go down and curtain falls, they’re just people again. Tired, road weary, and burned out. 

Zlata tires of Lou’s scratching and returns to Mickey as Lou sparks a joint, “got a new high wire act.”

“That’s what I hear,” the feel of those green eyes on him still making his skin feel alive and electric.

“Our lovely Ringmaster seems to be pretty infatuated with them,” she snickers, “family of six, their dad seems like a real piece of shit.”

“Ain’t they all?”

She exhales a slow breath of herb infused air, “yeah,” handing the joint over to his waiting fingers, “look on the bright side, without our fathers bein’ pieces of shit, we’d never have ended up circus freaks,” her smirk growing larger.

He half-coughs on his exhale, “fuckin’ could have warned me this was the potent shit.”

“Oh yeah. Smuggled right across the border from old Mexico,” she winks.

He hands it back, though potent is what he needs right now. Mickey’s never nervous, always cool, always confident. But something feels different tonight. Fuck, he can’t pinpoint it. His eyes catch on the tip of the surgery scar on Lou’s chest, and linger there as she takes a long toke. 

“Ain’t that kind of night Pretty Boy,” she reminds him. Like it’s not his fault. Like none of it was his fault. The same way she always reminds him. And maybe someday he’ll believe it.

————

“Five minutes,” Mandy leans her face into the dressing room doorway without knocking. 

“Yah,” he responds, scanning her over. That stupid silver costume he hates, the one where too much of her skin shows, “ain’t that your Vegas only wear?”

She rolls her eyes at him, “well, my red one needs Sheila for mending, and my blue one has a nice little period stain in the crotch that I need to…”

“That’s enough,” he cuts her off, he has no desire to know the finer points of how to remove a period stain.

“What’s with you? Extra grumpy today?”

His middle finger responds for him.

“Your girls okay?”

“Yeah,” but she sees right through him, and he has to admit, “just worried about Val.”

“Paw still?”

“Think so.”

She takes the steps into the dressing room, laying her skinny hand on his shoulder, “Ms Bodnar will be back in the morning, she’ll get her taken care of.”

“I know,” it comes out with less bite than he wanted. Just enough to make her hand retract.

Enough to make her change the subject, “well the new act should be entertaining at least. V seems pretty excited about them.”

“That’s what I hear,” fuck, those green eyes are still crawling all over his skin and it’s making him squirmy and itchy. Fuck that, it ain’t happening. Not tonight. Not ever. Guy probably just has a thing for the cardboard cutout that Mickey fucking hates. Just some fucking hero worship or some shit. Nothing more. 

Circus fame ain’t like real fame. But enough to get noticed. It’s enough that new performers are always tryin’ their hardest to impress. The main act, the main attraction; he’s the competition, he’s the one to beat, the one to outperform. Of course that Burning Bush would scope him out. Pretend not to recognize him even though he couldn’t hide the staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I'm just going to try to clean up some of my backlog of shit on the desktop while I'm sitting around the house feeling sorry for myself. 
> 
> I'm not entirely sure what's happening with this one. I guess the biggest obstacle for me in writing a work like this would be that I would have to seriously work on my imagery skills. So if you have constructive criticism on that - I'm open to it. I have storyline ideas happening, it's just unraveling pretty slowly in my head. So storylines, I don't need. 
> 
> Um, yes, the entire cast of Shameless will be showing up randomly throughout the work - well, not the entire cast, I don't feel like inviting Karen or Jimmy/Steve or well, really, any of the Gallagher's love interests. The OCs will be here. The roles will obviously be very different from Mexico. But if you don't like them, either give me constructive reasons or... door is that way...


	3. The Crowd Pleaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening night for the Gallagher crew.

The Crowd Pleaser

 

It’s impressive now. The lights, the glamour, the big booming voice of the male ringleader. The gorgeous skin and sparkling smile of the female ringleader. The singing, the music, the athletes, the animals, even the clowns. Fuck Frank. He’s got nothing on these painted faces, big shoes, and wigs. The silliness, the anything-to-please-the-crowd. 

It’s impressive. The snake-charmer, the knife thrower, the fire mistress, the dancers, the globe of terror, sword swallowing, contortionists. The aerialist, the one that caught his eye earlier, Mandy. Her center ring routine. The same stocky, gorgeous man controlling her silks from ground level as she wows the crowd with her talent. 

The elephants. The male ringleader, what was his name? Kevin? He guides one of the elephants to the center ring with the female ringleader curled in her trunk. Vanessa? Veronica, maybe? 

They know how to put on a show. No doubt about that. And the Gallagher troupe will have to step up their showmanship if they plan on making it with this crew. The whole group of them are beyond talented, they show no trace of nerves, each act has it’s own level of danger, shock and awe value that pleases the customers.

By the time they’re five minutes out, Ian is sweating and praying to God the tiger man doesn’t hang around to watch the act. The last thing he needs are those crystal eyes on him when he’s riding a unicycle on a high wire with his juggling brother on his shoulders. The last thing he needs is the pressure of impressing the main attraction. A man who is so incredibly gorgeous without the glamour of stage make-up and costuming. He can’t even fit into the sea of faces when he’s dressed in normal clothes and controlling the rhythm of an aerialist. 

“Ready?” Lip’s kick lands squarely in Ian’s shin.

“Fuck,” pacing past him to peer through the curtains, gauge the crowd in the arena. Their dressing room is the far one from the main door, but even this far down, the stands are packed, “fuck.”

“Better than puke,” he laughs. The unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He can’t smoke in here, but that’s not going to stop him from keeping the cancer stick nice and close. Sometimes he does the routine with it hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, lose the cig,” Fiona scolds when she appears, fully costumed and made up, “are we stretched and ready? We need to impress tonight. They’ll only keep us on if we perform tonight. Okay?” she’s talking to the entire group, but her eyes are lingering on Carl.

He shrugs, “I don’t see why I can’t try a little pyro.”

“Because I told you not to.”

“And because last time you lit Debbie’s hair on fire,” Lip reminds him.

He scoffs, but at least puts his fire baton back in the chest, “fine.”

“We can practice it sometime soon though,” Ian tries, knowing Carl’s heart lies in fire. And he’ll never be satisfied until he gets to twirl a flaming baton on a tight rope. The way his eyes lit up when the fire mistress was introduced at the performer’s meeting. Ian was certain that Carl had fallen in love at first sight with the leggy, smirking woman. 

————

“Remind me why we’re in the line-up directly in front of the main act?” Ian wonders as they’re climbing the ladder and they’re being introduced. Frank riding around the Ringleader in a tiny car with his water-spraying flower and horrible jokes.

“No fucking clue,” is Lip’s only input, “but c’mon he’s just a guy with a couple tigers. Can’t be that great.”

“He’s pretty cool,” Debbie hisses back at them, “I YouTubed him earlier. He talks to the cats in Ukrainian and talks to the crowd in English. He does some pretty serious stunts, and he does it all without the prods and irons and horrible things that most cat trainers use. He won’t even allow fire on stage when the cats are out.”

“What’s he do when he loses control of the cats then?”

“I don’t know, get’s eaten?” she’s on the platform, her arms out, open, smiling her show smile and curtsying. A few well timed waves to make the little kids think she’s honed in on them particularly as she takes a few steps out onto the wire. Carl on the other end, his turn now for bows and waves. They walk until they meet in the middle, fingertip grab and wait.

Ian’s turn. The beaming smile, the first step onto the wire that’s become nothing more than an extension of his body. The showman’s bow, the well timed waves and a few winks. Walking the rope as Liam is introduced. Walking until his lead foot is against Debbie’s heal. Waiting.

Lip, he still hasn’t quite perfected the smile or the ass-kissing waves. Fiona, she’s putting on the extra show for the Ringleaders. The circus owners are in one of the observation boxes. Raquel and Martin, Rocky’s Family Circus. They haven’t met them directly yet, but they’ll be the final decision in whether they stay or go. 

Ian extends his hand to Debbie, sliding his front foot forward as she climbs on. Ian’s shoulders to Lip’s as Carl is starting the climb. Liam is settled squarely on Fiona’s shoulders while she nears and Ian bends, lowering Carl for Liam to climb over. Linking with Fiona at the same time. 

Frank’s voice filtering in and out of Ian’s subconscious, he makes the announcements and adds some stupid fucking jokes along the way. He mostly ignores him, but sometimes the timing is based off his narrative. So his drunken musings are still a part of Ian’s brain. Always.

A high-wire Gallagher pyramid. The crowd is pleased and this is just the start. He feels some of his nerves start to calm. Just slightly. Blaming it on the pressure, the added pressure of being the new act. Having to impress to be able to stay. Frank already burned their bridges with two other circuses. They can’t afford to lose this one.

The pyramid dismantles in the exact way it’s supposed to. He’s left with Carl on his shoulders in the middle of the wire. Lip is tossing the light-up juggler’s balls out. Carl does his warm-up bit, then they fall into rhythm together. Carl’s right, adding some pyro to this would be a serious crowd pleaser. Juggling through as Ian takes the steps back towards the platform for the unicycle. The worst part of it is getting on.

Fiona takes the spotlight on the other end of the wire for now while Ian and Carl are firmly planted on the platform. 

“Got this?” Lip wonders, holding the unicycle steady.

“Of course I do,” Ian responds with a slightly false bit of confidence. This is the most dangerous part of their act. If Ian loses balance, Carl is broken human on the ground beneath them. Even with the mats, he’d still end up with injuries. 

He gives Carl’s shin a quick reassuring squeeze, though he’s certain Carl never gets nervous. He’s never been afraid of going bigger and higher. He’s always begging them to add more danger. 

The nerves, they just won’t die. It’s strange. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to impress. This isn’t the first time it’s been a perform or lose the spot kind of scenario. Fuck, maybe because this is the best circus in the States. Maybe they just don’t have the pizzaz to hang with this crew. Even the old man missing one eye and reading fortunes or whatever the fuck that weird creepy mystic stuff is. Even that guy was engaging and impressive. 

Fiona is sliding out of the splits. All she has left is the walk back to the far platform and they’re back on. Ian takes a deep breath, feeling steady and solid on the seat. Carl’s body weight on his shoulders. That itch against his neck of the sequined pants against his bare skin. They’ve done this before. The act, the scene, the stunts. They’ve done it all. So why does it feel so much different this time?

Lip’s hand clamps down quickly on his knee, the cue to move. So he does. He pedals. To the center of the wire. And Carl juggles. The crowd is cheering, he’s smiling, his hand extends to motion for more cheers. He scans the stands and he keeps pedaling, forward and backward. One side of the wire to the other. Carl is steady. The only movement Ian can feel from him is the juggling. Exactly the way it should be. 

The bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach is only knotting tighter. His attention drawn towards the far side of the arena. Fuck, his heart leaps into his throat and a hot flush passes through his body from head to toe. The crystal clear ocean blue gaze, even from this far away, makes his breath catch. 

“Chill out man,” Carl whispers at him, having felt the tension climb into his shoulders, “take a breath.”

He does. And he forces himself to break the line of eye contact. 

This is just another show. This is just another crowd. This is just another town. Another act. Another stunt. This is just the life. The life chosen to get out of the Southside. Get out of being just another hood kid. Just another impoverished, hungry street rat. This is the life chosen. The life you have to prove yourself worthy of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to be all cute with the chapter titles and make them relate to roles or acts or characteristics of the circus. They don't necessarily have anything to do with the specific chapter. We'll see how long I have the patience for cute shit...
> 
> And that's all the patience I have for posting today. Planning on the next chapter of the Sunday work tomorrow. And maybe another one of this. But we'll see. I feel a little better about the backlog :)


	4. The Danger Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters been sitting on my desktop collecting dust for three months.

The Danger Acts

 

“They ain’t bad,” he shrugs, watching the high wire act from the end of the arena. He can hear the girls behind him getting ready for their show. Pacing in the caged cars that he hates. They’re only in them for a short while, but he hates when they’re enclosed like that. Even briefly. 

Fuck, that Burning Bush has a hot body. All long and lean, his show smile is ridiculously huge and he’s so pale and freckled. Circus performer’s costumes leave little to the imagination. But Mickey’s imagination had gone to all the right places the moment he caught this guy’s eye in practice earlier. Fuckin’ gingers. Fuck, last thing he needs is to get into it with a fellow performer. 

Shaking his head to himself as he backs away from the curtain, walking over to Zlata’s pen first, “ready?” sliding a treat through the bars and giving her ears a good scratching.

“Oleksandra,” he smiles towards her, all perked up and ready to go, “I know I don’t have to ask you if you’re ready.”

“You ready Mick?” Iggy always looks weird without a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. That and he looks like he’s actually showered in the last week. But he still mostly smells like road grime and sweat.

“Fuck you think?”

His fingers run along the bars of Ollie’s pen and she snuffs at him, “just wonderin’.”

“The fuck is everybody askin’ so many fuckin’ questions for today? It’s just another stop on another tour.”

He shrugs and his mouth opens, but he scans over the expression on Mickey’s face and decides not to push it. 

Fuckin’ nerves. Everybody has ‘em, so why the fuck’s it so weird for Mickey to have ‘em too? Fuck Mandy. Fuck Iggy. His head snaps in Zlata’s direction when he feels her eyes on him. Fuck her too. Mickey’s fine. He’s always fine. He’s more comfortable in the cage with three cats big enough to swallow his head in one gulp than he is in a room full of humans. So fuck them.

He sighs, sauntering over to run his fingers over her gold and black head. Absorbing some of her calm as he watches her eyes. 

It’s just the fucking show, the crowd, the costumes that Mickey hates. He always has. This wasn’t his choice. Circus performer. Fuck that shit. 

————

The show closing dance. He hates that part most of all. The stupid choreographed garbage. With the fake smiles and the cheesy waves and bows. The only thing that makes it worth doing is the woman he’s partnered with. If anyone hates this shit more than Mickey does, it’s her. She’s more likely to flip someone in the crowd off than she is to wink at them. And she’s usually high as a fuckin’ kite by this time of the night. 

She doesn’t disappoint him, giggling that weed-laced giggle when he dips her and practically going dead weight in his arms. She’s lucky she’s paired with him. Most anyone else would be sick of her shit and drop her on her head. Fuckever, the dumb bitch is half the reason he finally got his ass out of that wheelchair, so he has to put up with her. And he’s half the reason she ended up in intensive care for three weeks. Fuck. Rolling back into his arms for the final steps, twirling out and bowing together. The crowd is standing and cheering. Chills are rolling down his spine, but it sure ain’t for them. 

His eyes are like a fucking magnet. Dragging Mickey’s over the crew of performers on stage to where he’s standing near the dressing room exit. The fucking dressing rooms in this shithole stink to high heaven with the smell of hockey gear. Fuck these Northern towns with with their run-down arenas and permanent stench of sweaty ballsack. 

The newbies didn’t have to learn the closing routine yet. If they get signed on for the rest of the season, they’ll learn it before the next stop. Judging by their showman’s smiles on the high wire earlier, they won’t mind this bullshit at the end. The short fucker with the permanent scowl on his face, he’ll probably hate it, but the rest of ‘em, fuck. They fuckin’ chose this life, didn’t they?

————

Leaning back in the grassy softness of Val’s container, waiting for her. She’ll acknowledge him some time. He’s got nothing but time. He’ll wait it out. Each girl has her own shipping container. As close to a natural habitat as possible. Real grass growing from real dirt, the lighting is rigged to simulate natural daylight at the normal hours of every day. A baby pool full of water. The barred windows open. They have dirt for doing their business in. And his brothers who drive the trucks from town to town, they get the pleasure of cleaning the giant liter box. Not that they give a shit, any other scenario they’d probably be street urchins, sellin’ sex or drugs instead.

As long as the girls don’t turn on him, and as long as PETA doesn’t win their crusade to shut down the circus, then he should be able to make a pretty long career of this. He’s never sure if he wants to, but it supports the whole damn family. After Mom died, Dad sold them to the circus. Peddled them off as workers. But it didn’t take long before Mandy’s innocent face and drooling interest in the contortionists and aerialists started being noticed. She wanted to practice and learn and she knew Mickey was the weak one that would give in to her every desire just to see her smile. Every chance they got, they’d be soaking up knowledge like sponges from every performer that would spend time with them. They learned quick and soon they were being trained by a real trainer. 

Mickey’s natural ease on a pull up bar was what caught the eye of a snarky bitchy trapeze artist. Lou honed in on him immediately. Mandy learned the silks and the hoops. And soon she was performing with a group of girls in their first tour. The fucking trapeze was fun. It was exhilarating and easy to lose himself in the power of it all, the thrill and the passion. It was great, it was beautiful and it was amazing. 

Until it wasn’t.

Fuck. His hand shakes as he runs it over his face. Eyes closing, imagining something else. Anything else. Finding his mother’s smile in his memories. And when he opens his eyes, Val is standing over him. He felt her move, but knew if he watched her, she’d back away again.

He stays silent. Watching her eyes, feeling her paws in the grass beside his shoulders while she watches him. He breathes and she blinks. His hand rises, slides over her shoulder and she nudges her nose against his face.

“There she is,” he whispers, stroking her soft fur and letting her nudge against his face. The rest of the world outside the container. The performers undressing, removing make-up, unwinding from the show. Some still out, letting the buzz of the crowd fizzle out in their minds as they ride the adrenaline wave. Some having gone back to their trailers. Some mingling in the arena, preparing their equipment for tomorrow.

But this, this part, his fingers through her soft coat, her hot breath against his face, her massive paws boxing him in, her gentle acceptance of his affection. This is the part he needed before he’d be able to unwind after tonight’s show. The knowing he still has her trust, he still has her love. He won’t force her to do anything she don’t want to do. And she won’t hurt him. The silent understanding that he’s worked so hard to achieve with her. The strong-willed tiger whose previous trainer tried his hardest to break.

“There’s my girl,” he breathes against her forehead. When she leaves the embrace, it’ll be on her own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple things here - Mickey is already clearly gay from what he said in an earlier chapter about not fucking women. So no need to worry about anything more than friends with Lou. She's a mentor and apparently they experienced a performance accident together that shook them both off the trapeze.
> 
> So it's been awhile, this is like a brand new fic to me, but the atmosphere of this one is pretty easy so far. I can't imagine it will get dark. 
> 
> Circuses - I don't like the idea of caged animals, but judging from my research the treatment of show animals depends on a lot of factors. Their handlers, their fellow performers, and the overall Circus ownership and such. My animals will be treated fairly. Throughout. Sounds like Val's bad experience is behind her. And Mickey is healing her.


	5. The Elephants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Ian, hard to focus when there's a blue eyed beauty near by that you can't stop thinking about?

The Elephants

 

“Jesus Christ Ian, where’s your fucking head?” Lip flicks him on the temple.

“Sorry,” mumbling towards Carl, who he just dropped on the mat.

“So maybe we’re not ready for this routine,” Carl admits, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“We have to be ready for this routine,” Fiona insists, “and we have to be ready for it in two hours,” hands on her hips.

The practice wire is only a foot off the mats, but when he falls from Ian’s height plus a foot, it’s still a hard tumble, “Fi,” Ian sighs, “I don’t really feel like killing Carl. At least,” shrugging, “not today. Maybe we go back to the stilts for tonight?”

“Unbelievable,” she throws her hands in the air, “did you guys see the same acts that I did last night? And you want to do stilts?”

“You could let me do fire,” Carl mumbles.

“You want to do fire? You were drooling over the fire mistress last night, and you really think you juggling with fire is going to top that?”

“No,” he’s staring at her feet, afraid to meet her eyes.

“Fighting never worked out well for us in the past,” Debbie cuts in, “let’s compromise. You know, that thing where we meet in the middle? We all get part of what we want, but not all of it?”

“Not this time Debs. We need this act to wow.”

“By dropping Carl off the high wire on his head? Sure, that’ll get a lot of YouTube hits,” Lip counters.

“They’re death-defying stunts Fi, not just plain old death,” Ian crosses his arms over his chest, “I’m not doing it. We’re not ready. And I’m not taking responsibility for his brains splattered all over the concrete.”

She lets out a frustrated sigh, her nostrils are flared and her eyes are bugging out of her head, but she’s trying so hard not to snap, “just practice it. You have two hours. If you can’t get it done solidly in the next hour, then we’ll regroup.”

“Fine,” reaching out to tug Carl to his feet, “you good with this?”

“I’d be better with it if we were juggling fire,” he mumbles, that demented glee rising in his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you heard her. Try not to die in the next hour and maybe we’ll stand a chance of convincing her to give that a shot.”

“Okay,” sighing while that little psycho smile rises on his face.

————

He’s supposed to flip from Ian’s shoulders to the wire. But every time he gets his feet planted on Ian’s shoulders, he loses balance and ends up on the mats. Carl can flip on the wire, that’s not the problem. He’s landed hundreds of flips. It’s the height and added balance of the unicycle. Normally he sits on Ian’s shoulders for the act. There’s no standing, there’s no flipping in this portion. But Fiona got it in her head that they needed to up the ante. 

“Fuck,” again as Carl hits the mats, “we’re done.”

“I don’t get it man,” Lip admits, “you’re both holding form. It should be working.”

“Yeah, well it’s not. So what do we do? Debs, you want to do your hula hoop? Get Lip on the stilts and call it a night.”

“Works for me,” she shrugs. But Fiona is giving them the evil eye.

“You’re welcome to try it yourself Fi if you want it done right,” he dares her.

Narrowing her eyes, “fine. Do your stilts and your hula hoops. But when we don’t get signed on, just remember who’s fault it was.”

“Okay,” he shrugs. Better jobless than lifeless.

————

He’s supposed to be spotting Lip. But his eyes have found Mikhailo and they seem to have decided there’s no way in hell they’ll stop looking at him. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His act last night, it was beautiful. The way he worships those cats, cares for them and plays with them in the pen. He goes in there without a single tool to dominate them with. And they do every single thing he asks them to do. Mostly using Ukrainian commands, a few treats and a few feathers on fishing rod looking things. He just looks like he’s having fun. And so do the cats. They got sidetracked in the middle of the tricks last night and he just let them, rolling around and play-wrestling on the floor when they were supposed to be on the platforms. Ian has seen plenty of big cat trainers before, but he’s never seen one that seems so in tune with them. 

The guy barely dresses up for the show. Black pants and a sapphire blue shirt with just a splash of sparkle on the body. His body, a thing of beauty. The closing dance last night left Ian questioning if his gaydar was off, the way he seemed to just fall right into line with the fire mistress. Like they’re one body. It seemed too real to be just fellow performers. 

Regardless of his sexuality, Ian needs to get him out of his head. But it’s so hard when his senses just tingle and ache to be indulged by him. He’s fucking true north and everything inside of Ian is pointing his direction.

For a guy who should be used to all eyes on him, he certainly is well aware when there’s an extra set. His eyebrows immediately up on his forehead, glaring across the rings at Ian while he guides his sister in the rafters.

He wants to get closer to him. He wants to hear his voice, get a better view of his eyes, his lips, his face. His hands. He wants to get close enough to see what’s written on his fingers. He wants to reach out and trace a finger over his beautiful pout. A smirk rises on his gorgeous pale face as Ian is snapped back into his task at hand by Lip’s voice, “shit Ian. What the fuck?”

Lying on the mats on his back, the stilts up in the air, along with his middle finger.

“Sorry, shit, Lip, I’m sorry.”

“Look if you can’t handle the pressure, then sit this one out. Tell Fi you’re feeling sick. We don’t need nerves up there, alright?”

“I know, I’ve got this. Just… distracted. But I’ll…”

“Distracted? By?” his curiosity dousing the frustration.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. Forget it.”

“Come on man, circus life is full of half-naked, insanely hot people, and you’re just now taking interest? After three years of being on the road?”

He shrugs, feeling a little blush rising. His sexuality has never been hidden when it comes to his family, but he also doesn’t run around advertising it. It works better for the show that way, he’s comfortable gaining some flirty attention from either gender in the crowd, anything to get some extra cheers. Doesn’t bother him one bit. He’s never slept with a woman, never wanted to, no reason to experiment when he already knows what he likes and he’s not ashamed to admit it. 

It’s just this, this thing, this man that he’s barely spoken to, that he’s not certain is gay, that he’s not certain would ever be attracted to him. This man who he is so attracted to on so many cellular levels that he can’t explain it, in any way that made any sense. It’s not even just a sexual thing. Sure, he pictured him naked last night, but that’s not just it. It’s like something just clicked in his mind and he can’t convince his mind to unclick now. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

He shrugs at his older brother, “it’s nothing.”

“Alright,” completely unconvinced, “I’m going for a smoke. Get your head out of your ass by showtime or sit out.”

“Yes sir,” he salutes him, to which he receives a middle finger. Some Southside habits never die. 

————

“I don’t know what you want me to fuckin’ do about it,” he’s throwing his hands in the air as he’s talking to one of the dog trainers, “I ain’t the fuckin’ ringmaster. You got a problem with your act, take it up with Kev or V. Got a problem with the way things are run then take it up with Rocky. Not me.”

“You are pussy man, yes?”

“I fuckin’ told you not to call me that. And yes, I’m the fuckin’ tiger man. The fuck difference does it make?”

“You get everything pussy needs when pussy needs it, yes?”

“Yes, ‘cause I’m worth spendin’ some of the fuckin’ money I bring in. So learn a unique skill or shut the fuck up,” his brows are up to the absolute height as he stares the woman down.

She narrows her eyes at him, hands on her hips as she steps towards him, she’s not an easily intimidated Russian. Ian can tell that much already, “so you tell them, yes?”

“No, what the fuck? I ain’t your errand boy. Tell them your damn self.”

“You have influence, yes?”

“Fuck off Svet.”

“You care for animals, yes?”

His will is starting to soften, “fuck. Fine. Not for you, for your fuckin’ dogs. We clear?”

“Yes,” she takes a quick hold on his shirt, dragging him in to kiss his temple before she turns.

“Fuck,” he shakes out his shoulders like he’s trying to shake her physical presence off, his eyes land on Ian’s immediately, “the fuck you lookin’ at Firecrotch?”

“How do you even know if the carpet matches the drapes?”

“Your whole fuckin’ body is orange and red. Why the fuck wouldn’t it?” he’s storming off down the hall towards the back exit of the building. But Ian follows him anyway, “the fuck you want? You got some fuckin’ dogs ain’t bein’ treated right by the fuckin’ staff too?”

“No. No dogs,” he shrugs, “well, Liam bit someone at the last circus but…”

“The fuck you want then?” his face turns suddenly and it knocks the breath out of Ian’s lungs.

“Well, I just, um, I was, I mean, you’ve…”

“Spit it out Mumbles,” he stops walking, his body is turned directly towards Ian and holy fuck he can’t think a single coherent thought when he’s face-on, and this close.

“I just, well, you’ve been on this circuit for awhile now, right?”

“Fuck’s that mean? I look old?”

“No, that’s not… no, I just… you’re the main act, so I just assumed…”

“Fuck you is what you assumed. Now spit it the fuck out or get the fuck out of my space.”

“Your space?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re the one who stopped moving, I just stopped when you did.”

“Yeah, way too fuckin’ close to me Tough Guy.”

“Oh,” he takes a step back, feeling a blush rising and a complete inability to make eye contact, “I just was wondering, it seems like you know all the acts and all the athletes. I just, um, fuck.”

His brows are darted up to his hairline when Ian finally takes a deep breath and takes the chance to look at him. His expression is starting to slip from anger to amusement and a tiny smirk is taking over.

“So my sister is freaking out about our act not being enough to get signed on here. And since you’re the main act, I just guess I wanted some…”

“Fuckin’ pointers or some shit?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, feeling like a complete idiot for even approaching this guy without permission. Honestly, he should have bodyguards to keep idiots like Ian away from him.

“Jesus Christ, look, I’m late for dinner. You want some fuckin’ pointers then follow me. I ain’t got time for this shit.”

Dinner? It’s like three in the afternoon. But he keeps his mouth shut and does as he’s told. Staying behind him like a damn child as he struts out of the building and back to the gypsy style city of performers’ trailers. In the very center is the enclosure for the elephants. They’re getting time outside, washed down with hoses as they trumpet and splash in the mud. They’re gorgeous. 

Beyond them are the horses. Galloping around their make-shift outdoor pen. Trainers and staff gathered around to make sure none of them jump the rails.

“So you wanna know how to stick around, huh? Get fired from the last get-up, this your last chance at makin’ the big time, or what?”

“No. It’s just that this is the best show in the States, and Frank kind of, well he fucked up our last contract, so this is, well, we really need this.”

“Frank your manager or what?”

“Our dad.”

He pushes through a heavy curtain that’s hung between two shipping containers. Reveling a large enclosure containing all three tigers. Holy fuck. He walks right up to the gait and climbs inside. Holy fuck. Ian freezes completely. Lost, staring as he squats down and opens his hands. Allowing all three giant cats to approach him, nuzzle into his hands, scratching their heads and handing them treats. Holy fuck, they’re huge.

Ian normally avoids the things like cats that could kill him in one swipe. Even the elephants make him uneasy, that kind of power. But there’s something so much more intimidating about the tigers. The last show had a male lion, and Ian was terrified of him. 

“So what do ya got?” 

He hasn’t even realized he’s talking to him again. He’s been muttering things to the tigers since he got in there with them. Ian can feel his mouth is partway open, his eyes must be huge and he isn’t sure if he wants to turn and run or lay down and play dead.

“You know, that makes your act stand out?”

His voice is registering in his mind, but his mind has stopped comprehending the words. The white tiger is rubbing her side against the pen as she walks the perimeter. The one with a slit in her ear has lost interest in her handler and is lying down in the center, stretching out in a band of sunlight. And the last one, the largest one, the one from the cardboard image, she’s watching Ian. Her eyes are golden and she looks like she’s trying to decide his threat level.

“Cat got your tongue?” he smirks.

“Not funny.”

His smile, fuck, it’s the most incredible thing Ian has ever seen, “relax, she won’t eat ya. Not unless I tell her to,” one eyebrow arches higher than the other and if Ian thought he was lacking thoughts before, he knows it without a doubt now. This guy, he has crawled over every single fiber of Ian’s being and made himself at home there. That fucking quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Ian might be confused, thinking he has competition with some other lady performers - but he doesn't realize that the true ladies of Mickey's affections are his tigers. One of the things I read awhile back about the whole Siegfried and Roy incident was he admitted to not spending the quality time with the tiger before the attack. The trust has to be maintained. And if Ian is going to find his way into Mickey's heart, he'll have to find his way into the tigers' hearts too. 
> 
> Yeah, I don't know, I could probably get back into this one long enough to figure out a storyline worth exploring. Let me know if you're on board :)


	6. The Fire Mistress

The Fire Mistress

Lou’s smirking at him when he exits the curtains with this fuckin’ Redwood hot on his heals, “the fuck you want?”

She exhales a smoke puff with a grin spreading, handing the joint over, “wasn’t lookin’ for you Pretty Boy,” her brow rises towards Ian as she scans him over, “I hear you got a little pyro in your troupe.”

“Um, yeah, he’s…”

“Gonna burn the fuckin’ place down if he doesn’t get proper training.”

“No, he’s not allowed to… Fiona banned fire in the act.”

“Mm hmm, that why he’s been tailin’ me most of the day?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Fiona, she the one in charge then?”

He nods, he’s looking at her like he’s uncertain of whether he should bow to her or offer an introduction. 

“Well you run it by her, but if he wants to learn,” she takes the joint back when Mickey hands it over. Her offering towards Ian is turned down with a shake of his head, she shrugs, “could add somethin’ to your little scene,” her blue eyes are scanning him over again. 

“You, um, have you been performing long?”

“All my life Love,” she sighs, dismissing him with a wave of her hand as her focus narrows down on Mickey, “Val?”

“More rest.”

“Sheila mended your shirt. It’s in the trailer. See ya out there,” she winks, giving nothing more than a half-cocked nod towards the Copper Nob beside him as she turns.

He waits until she’s gone and then lets out an audible sigh, “is it the fire I’m intimidated by? Or the woman?” he wonders aloud and then looks at Mickey with a stupid dopey smile on his face.

One that Mickey hates himself for smiling back at, “fuck, you’ve got a lot to learn if you’re going to survive this show. Now get fucked. I gotta get dressed.”

The dismissive attitude only makes Ginger smile wider, taking off towards the door of the arena at a half trot, nearly there when he remembers, “hey, thanks!”

Shaking his head to himself, but his eyes refuse to peel themselves off the guy’s ass. Dumb fucker anyway. He looked like he was ready to shit his pants when Mickey started handing out the raw meat to the girls. Fuckin’ pussy, he’s laughing to himself when he pulls the trailer door open. Though he never fully understood that term as an insult when he truly thinks about it. All the pussies he knows are some tough bitches. 

————

He’s not sure what the troupe of idiots is so worried about. They’ll get signed on. No doubt about that. The last high wire act was boring compared to them and Rocky kept them around for four seasons. Fuckever, it’s good to expand their horizons anyway. One of the many things circus life has taught Mickey - never narrow it down to one skill set. Gotta be versatile to stay in the center ring. 

He leans back against the cinderblock doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Their costumes are fuckin’ ridiculous. Exactly the thing to be expected from a circus. Sequins, gemstones, and glitter. Fuck, that idiot is ridiculously gorgeous in the stage lights. And when his eyes, that beautiful even from this distance, flit across Mickey’s face, it feels like a fuckin’ shock of lightning that races through his every nerve. 

The lightning is dampened immediately at the feel of that cold Russian bitch at his side, sliding the baby into his arms, “you take baby now.”

“I fuckin’ can’t right now, I gotta spot Mandy.”

“Let peon spin ropes.”

“No, fuck,” he starts after her with the baby on his hip when she takes off down the hall, “yo, bitch, wait the fuck up. There’s like a hundred other fuckers in this show that are capable of holding a fucking baby.”

“Yes? Baby likes piece of shit.”

“Baby’s a fuckin’ baby. All it needs is someone’s finger to chew on.”

She stops, spins on her heel to face him. Fuck, she’s intimidating sometimes, “you are baby’s father, yes?” her finger jabs into his chest.

He can feel his cheeks flushing with anger, but fucking fuck, this bitch is, well, she’s right. Ish. Almost, sort of, fuck, “fine, but I gotta find Lou to spot Mandy then.”

“Mandy is performer, no?”

“Yes, fuck.”

“Mandy is okay on silks, no?”

“Yes, just…”

“Mandy does show with or without piece of shit brother to hold ropes.”

“Jesus, fuck, I ain’t got time to argue this fuckin’ shit, I gotta…”

She grabs his arm before he can turn off, puts her face right in his and growls, “that fire bitch does not touch my baby.”

Fuck, he’s glad he never slept with this cunt. Not that he ever would, under any circumstance, but, “yes, fine.”

He has no fucking clue what her problem with Lou is, but he ain’t dumb enough to get in the middle of it either, “okay. Go now,” she waves him off, before he can respond the door of the stinky fucking locker room is slammed in his face.

“Fuck,” free hand rising to grind into his eyes. Blinking the spots he created to get the baby’s face into focus. His big round blue eyes latched onto Mickey’s sequined collar. Kid’s been surrounded by fucking sequins and sparkles and ridiculous colors his entire six month life, how the fuck he still finds them interesting is beyond Mickey, “alright kid,” his big round fuckin’ head falls forward in that baby way, his forehead meeting Mickey’s lips so sure, he kisses the little nugget, “hold on tight, we gotta run.”

—————

“Who’s the sweetest little baby?” Mandy is grabbing at his toes and making faces at him, talking in a voice that makes Mickey want to punch her.

“So you gotta turn the silks, all you gotta do is…”

She puffs a long exhale directly into his face, snorting out a laugh and rolling her eyes. She pinches the joint, sticks it in her bra and saunters off on her fuckin’ stilt legs.

“Think that means she’s got this,” Mandy shoves him, kisses her nephew, and trots off after Lou. 

“Fuck you both,” he mutters, feeling the baby’s breath on his neck. And his fat arms reaching out behind him, “Zlata, you aren’t very good at sneaking up on me.”

Turning, adjusting Yev to get a better one-armed grip on him as his free hand slides between the bars to let her get a nuzzle, “you remember Zlata, eh Yev?”

His hands do that up and down really fast thing that they do when he’s excited and sounds like a squeaky toy, “yeah, of course you do, you just saw her yesterday,” he watches his right hand slip out of the bars, taking Yev’s tiny one into his palm and then pushing back through for Zlata to sniff. 

He can hear the crowd cheering, closing his eyes, picturing Mandy’s routine, knowing she’s safe in the hands of the flame bitch, but fuck, it makes his stomach do flip-flops when anyone else is out there with her. 

“A baby…” interrupts his calm.

“Yes a fucking baby and a fucking tiger. And yes,” his eyes snap open, head turning quickly, expecting some PETA fuck to be standing in front of him with a damn protest poster. Those fuckers always seem to find a way into these damn small town venues, “oh, shit,” it’s not PETA. It’s Bushfire and his fucking skin tight uniform, a deep green shirt with black pants, “uh, thought you’d be holdin’ up a fuckin’ ‘no caged animals’ sign or some shit.”

“I would? Why would I…”

“I thought I was gonna open my eyes and see some fuckin’ protester here or some fuck.”

“Oh. That happen often?”

“Yes. No. I, just, fuck.”

Zlata licks his hand, and in the process the baby’s hand, which delights Yev intensely and Mickey can’t help but smile at the sound of baby joy. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a smile rising on Agent Orange’s face too.

“The fuck was your name?”

“Ian,” his eyes meet Mickey’s when he turns his head, and they just get stuck there. Like a big old sequined and glittered pile of gay stare-off. Kid’s gay, right? Gotta be, the fuck else would he be following Mickey around for? He didn’t actually come by earlier to get pointers. And he sure in the fuck ain’t here now to talk through the performance Mickey just watched either.

“Mick…”

“Mikhailo. I know. My brother, the one who is all heart-eyed over the fire mistress, you’re like his idol or something.”

“Yeah, well, I was gonna say, Mickey, but fuckever man. ‘Long as you don’t call me Mr Milkovich or some dumb fuck, then we’ll get along fine.”

His lips spread into a smile and Mickey wants to just fucking lean into it, but fuck that. Fucking a fellow performer has bad all over it. It’s different for Kev and V, maybe, is it? Isn’t their relationship built off more than sex? Fuck knows. Either fuckin’ way, if he fucks this kid after the show tonight, and they get signed on for the remainder of the season, fuck that. He takes a deep breath, a failed attempt to calm the hormones that are starting to course through his body, averts his eyes. That’ll help. Just don’t fuckin’ look at him. Fuck.

“Is there, um, a Mrs Milkovich then?”

“Fuck kind of question is that?”

“Um, it’s a yes or no kind of question.”

“‘Cause I’m standin’ here with a baby? Don’t mean it’s my baby, well, it is my baby. Mine-ish, fuckever, just ‘cause I’m standin’ here with a baby don’t mean it’s mine,” his voice trails off and his eyes have the nerve to lock onto those gorgeous green ones again, “no,” his voice squeaks out in this really fucking stupid embarrassing way, “no Mrs Milkovich.”

Fucking eyes, they’re brighter than the damn stage lights. Fuck. And that smile. Jesus, it’s dopey. 

Zlata snuffs at his hand, like she’s trying to tell him to back the fuck off or somethin’, like she knows his staring is fucking ridiculous, “I hear ya,” his eyes glance over to hers and she’s looking right through him, “don’t gotta get all smug about it though,” his fingers slide over her head, Yev starts with that weird little baby dance of joy on his hip again. 

“No one died Pretty Boy,” snakes through his reverie into his ears.

His middle finger responds for him before he slides Yev over to Mandy’s waiting hands. Planting a kiss firmly on his head, then telling Zlata, “showtime.”

——————

The damn crowd is still cheering long after he’s left the ring with the girls. He follows behind Ollie’s cage, cheering her on, mocking the crowd while she rubs along the bars soaking in the attention, “diva,” he reminds her when he opens the door to let her out of the cage into the pen in the yard, “good girl,” turning for Zlata next, “I know what you’re thinking,” as her eyes land on his and he smiles, “you’re thinking of a steak so rare it moos when you bite into it,” he watches his hand sliding through her fur. 

She stalks into her pen, sitting just opposite him and watching, “well I’ll get there, have some damn patience, don’t look at me like that, ain’t like I carry ‘em around in these fuckin’ tight ass pants or nothin’.”

He nearly startles out of his fucking tight ass pants when he turns towards his trailer and walks into a fuckin’ Redwood, “the fuck Firecrotch? You stalkin’ me?”

“No,” he takes a step back, looking at his feet for a second, “no. Sorry, I just, um.”

“Spit it out Mumbles,” he steps past him, “I gotta get back out for the final fuckin’ dance in three minutes and I got a couple hungry tigers waitin’ for their post-show treats,” yanking the door open, leaving it open but fucknut doesn’t take the invitation, instead, he waits outside and he’s there when he steps back out with a few big chunks of raw meat in his hands. He can feel his brows up to dangerous levels and this fucker better get his damn words out, like fuckin’ yesterday.

“I, um, I just wanted to say good show.”

“Wow,” passing a steak through to Zlata, “deep.”

“Well, I don’t know if we’re signed on or not yet, and I guess if we aren’t, then…”

“This goodbye?”

“Something like that,” he’s right behind him, and Zlata is walking the pen beside them, keeping her eye on him.

Mickey raises his hand to her, letting her know it’s okay, it’s a guest, not an intruder. Even though he seems pretty fuckin’ intrusive right now. Breathing on his neck and shit, sending annoying shivers down his spine.

“Um, but anyway, I think Carl, um, my brother, he was hoping to get your autograph.”

“Oh he was, was he?”

“Well, yeah, he’s always into danger, and what’s more dangerous than being locked into a cage with three wild cats and no way to protect yourself?”

“Protect myself?” he snorts it, sliding the meat through to Ollie, scratching her head and speaking words of adoration to her, “you mean from her? I need protection from you Ollie? Huh?” scratching at her chin, she holds the meat in her mouth without chewing just yet. Little attention slut that she is, she’d rather have his words than the steak, “okay eat. I’ll be back later.”

When he turns back to Burning Bush, flapping his hands in the space between them, expecting him to have his poster and pen ready; instead he gets a blank look.

“Where’s this fuckin’ poster then Tough Guy?”

“Poster?”

His eyebrows are up to his hairline by now, “fuckin’ autograph for your brother,” he air-quotes it and receives a playful shove to his chest. 

A low warning growl emits from Zlata’s pen and Firecrotch jumps back about five feet. Mickey snickers, “it’s okay girl,” elbowing Ian, “how ‘bout this? How ‘bout you get the fuck outta my way, let me get this fuckin’ closin’ dance bullshit over with, then I’ll find you. And your little pyro brother.”

Fuck that smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is Yev's dad but he never fucked Svet? How's that work? We'll find out eventually.
> 
> So Mickey speaks to the cats in Ukrainian but I didn't feel like running it through a translator just so you guys could run it though a translator again. So just use your imagination and know that Ian has no idea what he's saying when he's talking to the tigers.


	7. Globe Of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rest Stop

Globe Of Death

 

“I don’t understand,” Ian sighs, scrolling further down the screen.

“What’s not to understand? The guy’s social media is probably not run by him, he’s like famous, but not that famous,” Debbie pops another protein ball into her mouth.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’s famous enough that he’s not going to be sitting around after shows updating his social media. But he’s not so famous that whoever his rep is, is like, only a part-time employee.”

“He’s famous,” Carl argues, looking at the autographed poster tacked to the wall, “like famous famous. So maybe he’s just aloof…”

“Aloof?” Ian wonders, “you learn a new word today?”

“Yeah. It’s what that article said about Valentyna. She’s aloof. Zlata is the natural leader and role model. And Oleksandra is the playful one. But that’s not the point, not really. The point is, he’s famous enough that he turned down a contract in Vegas last year. Like a real spot in a Vegas casino. Like headliner year round type shit.”

“Then why is his social media so boring? There’s nothing, just like showtimes and shit. Not even pictures of the tigers all over the place. Or his son.”

“His son?”

“Yeah. I think. That’s why I’m…”

“Stalking him online?” Fi wonders, the shoe she just threw at his head bounces off the wall behind him, “go the fuck to sleep. Or at least shut the fuck up so the rest of us can sleep. It has been a long week. And I am spent.”

“Then you should be able to sleep through this.”

“Yeah, usually Frank’s drunk driving puts me right out,” she sighs, sitting up now and rubbing her eyes. Hair wild, combing her fingers through it roughly, “I suppose three hours beauty rest is better than none,” getting to her feet in the middle of the motorhome.

Sure, they look like the trash that they are, rolling in the middle of the circus caravan in their ’78 Pace Arrow, but she’s reliable. Mostly reliable. It’s been a few months since she’s left them on the side of the road. The rest of the circus is in newer flashier models, some of them really flashy. There’s semis, and he’s certain based off what he saw in the gypsy style performers’ city behind the arena at the last stop, that three of those shipping containers belong to the tigers. This circus definitely has more money than their previous one.

“I knew it,” Frank is babbling from the driver’s seat as he turns into a rest stop after a semi, “I knew it, what’d I say? I said Rocky’s Family Circus is the place for us. I said Rocky’s Family Circus is the place for fame. Circus fame, only the best for the fruit of my loins.”

Ian rolls his eyes and watches Debbie pulling on her headphones, settling into her bunk across from his. He was hoping to get the iPad from her, but looks like she’ll need it for the music tonight. Damn, the family phone is still gripped firmly in Carl’s grubby mitts. He sighs, knowing the information gathering will have to wait. Dropping off his bunk to the floor to follow Fiona out into the nippy fresh air. She’ll have a stretch, and he’ll stand there trying not to freeze while he waits for her. He knows she can handle herself in some random rest stop in the middle of nowhere, it’s more likely a bear come after her around here than a mugger. And he also knows throughout the years of stopping at truck stops that she can handle herself there too, but it never hurts to have back-up. 

He leans back against the side of old Pace, crossing his arms to the chill. His eyes falling on Frank stumbling across the sidewalk to the well-lit building. He thinks about the way Mikhailo’s eyes twinkled when he scanned him from head to toe earlier by the tiger’s cage. Crystal clear and so deeply blue he could easily drown in that man’s gaze.

His eyes catch on a form walking towards them across the parking spaces, a lit cig pinched between his fingers, he nods a greeting towards them, announcing, “you don’t gotta stop. Show’s still movin’. Just us makin’ a pit stop.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” Ian wonders under his breath towards Fi.

“No big deal,” she calls out, “just waiting for one of ours. Went inside. We were in need of a stretch anyway.”

The hand containing the smoke rises to his face, but he doesn’t take a puff, instead his thumb scratches the length of his forehead while he scans them over, gaze shifting to the Pace, around the parking lot, towards the building. Finally he shrugs, “you the new act?”

“Yeah,” Fiona responds with a lot more cheer than necessary, “that’s us, we’re…”

“Give a fuck who you ‘re,” mumbling as he turns back towards the semi, “guess we’ll find out real fuckin’ quick if you can keep your damn mouths shut.”

“What the fuck?” Ian wonders, taking a step towards his form as it’s walking away. 

Fiona’s hand comes down on his arm, “we need this gig Ian.”

“I know, but he needs to…”

“Drop it,” she hisses, “whatever they’re doing, whoever they are, it’s probably something illegal. So, we just step back inside the…” her voice trails off as they watch the guy open the container and a tiger leap out. From beside the truck a form that Ian would never mistake for another human being on this planet, comes into view. He’s got jogging pants on, a zipper hoodie and Ian can see his breath a fine mist in the mid Spring air in northern Minnesota. His right hand rises, fuck, Ian keeps forgetting to look at his finger tats when he’s close enough to look at them. He’s been distracted by his eyes, and his brows, and his lips, and his cheeks, and his everything. Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

He can see his lips moving and when his hand falls they both take off. The man and the cat. They take off at his full sprint across the grass bordering the rest stop. 

“Holy fuck,” Ian hears his own voice, sounding foreign in his head over the rushing in his ears. The cat is lithe, lean, her muscles are gleaming under her sleek coat, the lights of the rest stop reflecting off every surface of her.

“She beautiful,” Fiona gasps.

And the man. Luminescent skin absorbing the yellow hue of lights, his black hair is satin and Ian doesn’t have to see a single muscle line through his clothing to know every single one is tight, and strong, and fucking, “gorgeous,” he sighs, “he’s gorgeous.”

“They’re all girls.”

“I know.”

“Wait. What? That’s the guy you were internet stalking all night?”

“Uh yeah. You know anyone else on the show with tigers?”

“No,” her bony elbow meets his side, “no, I just… hmm.”

“Hmm like he’s straight? Or hmm like…”

“He’s the center ring, main attraction performer.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s got three cats.”

“Yeah.”

“And maybe a kid.”

He waits, but it takes a, “so?”

“So, gay or straight doesn’t matter. That guy,” her hand sweeps across the air, the place he just disappeared into the woods line with his tiger hot on his heels, “he doesn’t have time for anything else. I’ll tell you that much right now.”

He sighs, gaze lingering on the trees, waiting to see a flash of movement. A guy who runs around in the woods in northern Minnesota with a tiger. In the middle of the night. Between shows. Between stops on a circus tour. Fuck. She’s right, “I just,” his hand rises to scrub at his face, “can’t get him out of my head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ian, so lovesick already.
> 
> And an image of this version of Mickey running across a field with a tiger hot on his heels... you're welcome :)


	8. The High Wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's all starry eyed, but how do you fit yourself into the life of a busy man?

The High Wire

 

“Guess the Gallagher troupe got signed on, huh?”

“Yeah,” she’s got a joint hanging out of the corner of her lips, and a cocky smirk on her face, “you’d know that if you ever went to the performer’s meetings. You’d also know,” tossing the baton at him, “that we have to take them through the closing dance steps this afternoon.”

Tossing it back, “what? The fuck can’t Kev and V do it?”

“They’re the ringleaders,” she pretends to flip hair away from her shoulder, batting her eye lashes. But this is how she’s supposed to look. A beat up ball cap on her head backwards that used to read Rocky’s Family Freak Show but the patch fell off and now it’s just a darker spot of navy blue on a hat that’s mostly grey and sun-bleached. No make-up, no wig covering her short blonde hair that’s spiking through the bottom of the cap around her ears, “it’s beneath them to teach new dogs new tricks,” she winks. Hanging onto the baton for a moment, “lighting it,” loose sweatpants that still do nothing to hide her ridiculous legs, a work-out bra the only thing on her top. His eyes catch on the tip of her scar for just a split second.

“K. Who’s doing the show with you tonight?”

“Uh, think Charlie.”

“Charlie? Guy’s got one eye.”

“One eye that sees more than two eyes ever could,” she smirks.

Fuckin’ mystic bullshit Charlie. Pretty much just a crazy old man who spent too much time with some tribe in Africa in his youth. How the fuck he ended up in Africa? No fucking clue. He’s originally from New Mexico, “Charlie sure the in fuck ain’t jugglin’ fire with you.”

“Well, it’s him or Sheila.”

“Sheila? Last time you tossed her a baton, she took off running.”

“Turned my show into a comedy skit.”

“Fuck,” he releases the baton towards her, hand rising to grind into his eyes for a moment, “where are you in the line-up?”

“Fuckin’ fuck Pretty Boy, go to the fuckin’ meeting. I ain’t your personal assistant,” she twirls the baton a few times, measuring the weight of the new wand, “they put me in the fifth slot. After Eddie and the snakes, before Jody and his ‘could suck my own dick’ kind of contortion.”

Mickey shudders. Sure, he’s been around the circus and all it’s freaks for nearly his entire life, but there are some things, like contortionists, that will always freak him out, “fuck. Well, Mandy opens then her solo number is like tenth, so I got time. Alright, run through the whole thing, it’s been awhile.”

—————

Holy fuck, he forgot how much of a work-out this is. No fucking way Charlie could do this anymore. Maybe like a decade ago. It’s only like a ten minute routine, but fuck, she’s such a damn can’t-sit-still kind of performer that she’s all over the damn ring and he can barely keep up with her. 

“Jesus, take another toke bitch,” he sighs when they take a break, “calm your tits, this ain’t Vegas.”

She smirks, but does light the joint. A long slow inhale, passing it over. He watches the smoke swirl out of her mouth while he takes his own inhale, “coulda been Vegas,” she elbows him.

His free hand rises to his eyes, grinding until the spots are swirling and exploding, “yah. Sure.”

When he finishes blinking out the fog he created his eyes fall to Carrot Top and his psycho brother making their way across the arena. Big city now. Minneapolis for five shows. St Paul for five shows, then middle of nowhere shows for a night or two a piece all the way through the Dakotas. Fuck the Dakotas. Little psychotic glow on the little one, bouncing back and forth between Lou and Mickey like he can’t decide which one he wants to devour first but he’s sure to go cannibalistic at any fucking moment and they’re his dinner. 

Those pale freckled alien hands are on the kid’s shoulders, either steering him towards them or holding him back, Mickey ain’t sure. 

“Hi,” his smile is insanely childlike for a damn grown man. Grown? Maybe like twenty. Close enough to grown.

“Uh, hi,” he feels his eyebrows responding as well, and he sees Lou’s greeting wave that’s still somehow dismissive at the same time as welcoming. 

“We just, well, you said,” his green eyes dart over to hers, then dart away really fast like he’s afraid to look directly at her, “the other day, you said you’d, well, you said you wouldn’t mind teaching him some…”

“Teaching him how not to burn the fuckin’ circus down. No Hartford in this bitch’s life.”

Mickey takes a deep breath, forcing himself not to picture his girls locked in their cages as the circus goes up in smoke around them. He jolts to his feet, instinct, “we good here? I gotta get to lunch.”

“No you don’t,” she snorts, “katzen essen mittags.”

“Fuck you, katzen essen whenever the fuck I feed ‘em,” his middle finger is waving over his shoulder as he steps out of the ring. Charging over through the back doors of the arena, the asphalt stretching on for what looks like miles after being in the middle of nowhere for the last few weeks. Fuck, he hates the city shows. At least in bumfuck nowhere they got grass under their feet between shows. Here all they got is their containers and some asphalt. Fuckin’ asphalt. Fuck. He pulls the curtain aside just long enough to let himself through. The air is chilly, but the sun is out and the girls are stretched out, soaking up a band of sunshine. Ollie immediately trotting over for her daily adorations when she catches scent of him. Zlata rising as far as seated, her eyes locked onto something behind him.

“Fuck,” his hand lands on his chest when he turns to see Redwood behind him, “the fuck man?”

“I called your name,” his hands are clasped behind his back and he takes a few steps back, away from the cats. Away from Mickey, “a couple times.”

“What’d you do with your brother?”

“He’s fine. He’s with the fire mistress. She’s…”

“Lou. Louise, but don’t ever call her that ‘less you want a black eye to go with your orange hair. Her dad was in the Army, she spent her childhood on a base in Germany ’til her mom died and he decided he didn’t want a daughter without her mother so he dumped her at an orphanage when she was eight. He kept her brother. Rocky and Martin were vacationing in Germany when they found her wandering towards the border of Austria all alone. She was ten and ran away from her foster home. Fuck only knows what they did to her but she was,” he trails off, not sure why the fuck he’s telling this kid this shit. He shrugs, “ain’t mine to share. But now you know why she speaks German. And how she ended up with Rocky’s Family Circus. So you don’t gotta ask.”

His eyes are locked onto Mickey’s and he doesn’t look uncomfortable. He doesn’t look disinterested. Curious. He looks curious, but not the annoying kind where he’s going to start asking everyone on the tour how they ended up with Rocky and Martin. But he is going to ask, “so you speak to the cats in Ukrainian? You know some German. Obviously English. What else?”

“Fuck,” his hand finds Ollie’s ear and starts working through her fur, “just listen around. If it’s spoken in the family, then I know enough to get by. Might want to start learnin’ some yourself if you’re gonna hang around. So you got signed on?”

“Yeah, for the rest of the season. We’ll renegotiate the contract at the end of the year if we do well.”

He nods, calm starting to take over the longer he stands here with Ollie’s ears under his fingers. What a fuckin’ joke. All Lou needs to do is mention a circus fire and he comes running for the cats. His gaze shifts over to Val, where she’s lying on her belly, licking at her paw until she groans, rolls onto her back and stretches.

“So, um, how’d, well, how’d you end up here, you know, in the circus?”

He snorts, it’s unintelligible, mentions to Ollie, “guy wants to know how I got here, should I tell him the truth? Or give him the fan version? The whole ‘I always wanted to perform' bullshit. I love the spotlight, just like Ollie here, huh? The spotlight,” he scoffs, his eyes finding those green orbs that are narrowed like he’s trying to read his lips even though he don’t know the language, “alright,” truth it is, “piece of shit dad sold us when we were kids. Circus came through the Southside the year I was seven, Mandy six, Iggy eight, and Colin ten. Dad couldn’t afford us and the drugs so he sold us and kept the drugs. Asshole catches up with us every few years and tries to ride our coattails into some kind of fame,” his free hand rises to thumb at his nose, “uh, you? Always dream of walking a high wire?”

“No. Southside of?”

“Chicago.”

“Chicago?”

“Yeah. Uh, in English. Ya know, Chicago, Illinois. So this little get-to-know-you chat has been fun and all, but…”

“Oh I just wanted, um, we need to learn the steps of the closing number. The meeting earlier, they said…”

“Yeah,” he waves him off with his hand and his big eyes land on Mickey’s tattoos, “find you later. Hour or so.”

“FEAR?”

He rolls his eyes, brings his left hand off Ollie’s head and holds his fists in the air between him and Copper Nob, showing him the full set, “happy now?”

His eyes scan the word, a smile starts to rise slowly and so do his eyes, locking onto Mickey’s with a nod, “see you in an hour?”

“Yah. An hour. Center ring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know these chapters are kind of chopped and I normally post more than one in a day, but for whatever reason I'm just going with it like this for now. I like to have a few chapters to sit on while I post, also I hate posting. And maybe it's easier to read along with a WIP when it's only like five minutes of your time you need to dedicate each post?
> 
> First time I've ever changed Mickey's tats. I didn't get very creative, but we'll see the other hand in the next chapter in case you didn't already figure it out :)


	9. Impalement Arts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think we were learning a dance...

Impalement Arts

 

“She wears wigs ‘cause fake hair doesn’t catch as easy as real hair,” Carl has been babbling on about Lou, “she started with fire after a trapeze accident. She can do, like, everything. She said the key is to know the accelerants and all their properties, and anything you start, you gotta be able to put out. She is so… I think I’m in love.”

Ian reaches out, wipes the corner of Carl’s mouth, “I can tell. You’re in charge of Liam while we learn this dance.”

“But,” he starts whining, “but Lou is teaching us. I’m learning. She’s so…”

“Yeah,” he clamps his hand down on Carl’s shoulder, steering him into the door of the Pace, “I heard everything. But it only makes sense for…”

“Looks like it’s just you and me big brother,” Debbie hops off the bunk when she sees him enter.

“What? Lip and Fi are…”

“They’re in crisis with Frank right now. I told Fi we’d learn the steps and show them later. Or they can talk to the ringleaders and see if it can wait ’til tomorrow.”

“Not good.”

“Well, two is better than none. So…”

“We’ll learn!” Carl hefts Liam up onto his hip, “won’t we?” lifting his hand in the air for him and swaying it to the beat of the music blaring from the Snake Charmer’s rig. 

“No!” Liam hollers, struggling to the floor and taking off to the back of the camper.

“Come on buddy, please!”

Ian shrugs at Debbie who shrugs back, “two is better than none.”

He can hear Carl shouting curses at them when they walk out, but they aren’t about to be late for this session. It’s bad enough it’s only the two of them. For as much pressure as Fi put on them to land this gig, she should be here for this. Fuck Frank.

His senses key in on Mikhailo immediately. How couldn’t they? He is, fuck, he is holding a baby. Shit, he should have dragged Liam along. Carl could have watched them both.

“Ready for this shit? Ain’t there, like, six of you or some fuck? No, I don’t care, fuck that. You’re here late. We’re here, let’s get this shit over with,” he sets the baby at the edge of the ring, kisses his head and hands him a rattle that’s shaped like an elephant. 

It is hard to focus. So fucking hard to focus. Every time he spins, or dips, or lifts Lou his arms flex or stretch or do something to draw Ian’s full attention to his muscles. God, even through the t-shirt with the arms ripped off, hanging loose on his frame he can see every single line of the man’s body. And every time his crystal clear gaze scans over to him to make sure he’s tagging along, his heart lodges itself firmly in his throat and he either steps on Debbie’s toes or nearly drops her. 

“What the fuck Ian? You forget how to dance last time you fell of the wire, hit your head a little too hard?”

“Alright,” he stops Lou against his chest and looks over at Ian, “you sure ain’t no natural dancer, are ya?” one hand is on her hip, the other clasped in hers and Ian wishes to all things holy and un that he was the one in his grip. He pushes out on her a little, just enough to get a good look at her face and scan her over for a minute, like some kind of silent communication before he sighs heavily, lets her go and stalks over, “alright, trade partners.”

Ian shrugs, taking a step towards Lou, but Mickey’s hand clamps down on his hip, “not you. You ain’t got shit for steps. What’s your name Matchstick?”

“Me?” Debbie wonders.

His brows answer for him.

“Debbie.”

“Okay, well, Debbie, Lou’s gonna teach you the chick steps,” he waves her off with his hand before both hands clamp down on Ian’s hips from behind him. Holy fuck, now he’s going to have to focus on anything other than his dick even though his dick is trying really fucking hard to get his attention. A shiver rips through his core and when Mickey starts counting off the steps at his back, pushing his knee into his leg as the nudge to get moving, he fucking shudders, “get movin’, you’ll warm up quick.”

Fuck. Yeah, that’ll do it. Fuck. All he can focus on are his hands clamped on his hips and his breath meeting his shoulder-blades. He’s short, or Ian’s tall, he’s not really sure which is the more polite observation when it comes to height. Put it this way, Mikhailo’s never been asked if he plays basketball. And Ian gets the fucking question all the time. Though the last growth spurt is what finally got him his own bunk in the Pace. He barely fits on a mattress alone, much less with Carl’s butt crammed up against the small of his back. Now Lip gets that distinct pleasure. 

Though Lou is taller than Mikhailo too, so he must be used to taller dance partners. Not that Ian and Mickey are dance partners, but still. 

Fuck, his voice is sexy. It’s all gravelly when he’s keeping it low and it is impossible not to turn his head and look back at him. Every single breath he feels travel his back is a bolt of electricity through his core and his voice is exiting his lips as a snake, crawling around Ian’s neck and sliding into his ears, slithering through his mind and rattling it’s way down into his guts. 

He closes his eyes. And he focuses down on nothing more than his words and his steps. His hands on his hips and his count of the beat. The beat that is not actually being blared through the speakers in this arena, but the beat that will be floating around in here later. This afternoon and then again tonight. Two shows back to back. Same thing tomorrow. And one show the following day before they pull up the proverbial stakes and move along. 

He takes a deep breath and nothing else in this world exists. Nothing inside this arena. Not the lights, not the rigging, not the road workers, not the fellow performers stretching and working through their routines. Not the locals getting the concessions stands up and running. Not the banners in the rafters. Nothing exists outside this arena. Not the caravan of vehicles, not the gypsy city where in the center are the animals. The animals that Mikhailo has undoubtedly devoted his life to. But none of that exists right now. None of it.  
The only thing that exists in this arena, in this circus, in this town, in this state, in this whole fucking world; is the feel of his FEARLESS hands clamped down on Ian’s hips as he guides him through the steps of the dance from behind him. 

—————

“Jesus, fuck, that’s better,” now he’s smiling as he dips Lou and watches Ian do the same with Debbie. That smile sends the snake into a coil in Ian’s belly and he forces his eyes to land instead on the woman in his arms. Upside down and watching him, a light line of contact before he rights her and spins her out. They bow to each other, flip each other the bird and she saunters off after waving at the baby.

“Alright, gotta fuckin’ go,” he grabs the baby, and yes, of course Ian watches his ass when he bends down. It is the most perfectly balanced ass full of muscle and flesh and he’s certain the skin underneath his jogging pants is smooth alabaster. 

“Hey, thanks,” he calls out to his back.

The mumbled response doesn’t register in his mind. The thing that does register is Debbie, wondering, “think they’re a couple?”

“Kind of, I don’t know, maybe?”

“Well, they look pretty in sync with each other, but all that could mean is they've been performing together for a long time,” she turns, looping her arm through Ian’s at his side to give him the hint to move forward, “but if that baby was hers,” she sighs, “she’d probably have touched it at some point. And the baby is pretty young. So if they are a couple, then Mikhailo gets around. Or is a cheater. Or…”

“Mikhailo,” a hissing sound swirls through the center ring and Ian turns to face the whispery voice. A smooth looking, sleek and dainty Hispanic man with a snake lounging across his shoulders, “he is undeniably seductive but he doesn’t abuse this power, being a man of depth, sincerity and reliability. A secretive character, internalized and determined even though the road he travels is a slow and laborious one. Of somewhat anxious nature, he spends a lot of time pondering the mysteries of existence,” the man tilts his head back, using the snake as a neck pillow, “the man you speak of is a complicated one,” his eyes are dark silky chocolate and his skin is caramel. His fingers rise, a ring on every one of them, passing something to the snake’s mouth before he starts swaying across the ring.

Debbie shrugs, “that answer your questions?”

He shoves her and she laughs. Guess the snake charmer is a fucking weirdo. A circus takes all sorts. 

—————

“Holy shit,” he feels his eyes widen and knows Carl’s are doing the same. Watching the two of them in the center ring tossing fiery batons, twirling fire hoops and then the umbrella. The twirling and tossing and spinning and, “holy fuck,” they look so fucking at ease with each other like, “they’ve been performing together for years. That has to be all it is.”

“I’m in love,” Carl tells him again when Lou’s fire fingers light first her headdress, then Mickey’s arm bands right before he lifts her.

Ian has to convince his dick to stay calm when his eyes trace over every muscle line in his arms, lit up by the glow of the fires burning around them. This guy, whether he’s wearing gym clothes and holding a baby on his hip, or wearing a costume and feeding raw meat to an exotic cat, or running through a field beside a rest stop under the starlit sky; Ian’s heart is beating wildly in every inch of his body, blood rushing in his ears when that perfect gaze flits across the crowd and locks onto Ian’s. 

Fuck, his mouth is dry, and his eyes are glued, and he can’t fucking stop staring. The crowd is erupting for the loudest explosion of cheers Ian has heard yet tonight. And those eyes, those crystal clear, sea glass, lazy summer sky, the depth and sparkle of an ocean; those eyes have not left Ian’s face. But a cocky smirk has risen, and when he looks away it’s only to finish the number and leave the ring to a standing ovation.

Ian’s gaze follow him through the darkness of the side stage, through the doors that head to the locker rooms, he knows he’s walking down the hall, he’s exiting the building to tend to his cats and Ian still hasn’t moved. His eyes don’t shift from the door where he exited until he feels someone touch his shoulder, whoever it is, is removing a piece of lint from his costume. 

He turns to see a blue eyed, brown haired woman with a very motherly air about her. She smiles, wipes his shoulder, making sure the costume is flat at the seams, “you should see them in Vegas,” she tells him, her attention being grabbed by Liam, who has been standing beside Carl with their hands safely tangled together at their sides, “and who are you? Who is this sweet boy? Oh, you are so sweet, look at your eyelashes,” she’s bent so her face is at his level, smiling with a huge smile that kind of takes up her whole face and makes her eyes disappear. Liam moves, making certain Carl is between him and this woman. This woman who scans Carl over, smoothing his collar and patting it down before looking at Ian, “you’ll have to get your boys enrolled in school by the end of the week.”

“Oh, we do homeschool. They’re…”

“Rocky Family Circus rule. All kids must be enrolled in school with yours truly,” her hand extends to shake Ian’s, “Sheila Jackson. Teacher, mother, seamstress, dietician, and overseer of the children. If your homeschooling passes Rocky’s inspection, then they can continue on with that, but they’ll still have to test with me every month to make sure they are making the right progress. And you? How old are you? Are you taking any college courses? We have ways of getting scholarships for our performers,” she smiles at him and he can’t help smiling back, there’s something warm about her, “you don’t see many forty year olds on a high wire, do you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Who does your costumes?”

“My sister Debbie.”

Her hand is on his shoulder seam again, “she’s got a lovely stitch. So I suppose you’re all set on costumes,” she sighs, her eyes lingering on his face and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to speak while she studies him, “well,” she eventually starts, “the grey and white Winnebago Adventurer with the tiki torches lighting the way is me. Bring the whole troupe to breakfast tomorrow, we’ll discuss education over whole wheat waffles with blueberry compote and lemon ricotta cheese,” she smiles again and Ian feels himself smile back. She does a funny little half courtesy thing and hustles away.

“Well, that sounds like a complicated breakfast,” he sighs, reaching over to tousle Carl’s hair. 

He steps out of his reach, shooting him a dirty look that clearly reads, ‘I’ve hit puberty now and I can’t have weird hair when I’m trying to impress a lady’. 

—————

Another installment of the Gallagher high wire act behind them, he watches Mikhailo guiding the silks for his sister up in the rafters. He noticed him earlier, hawk-eyed on the guy rigging her nylons. Of course, if the guy securing the high wire looked as sketchy as the guy securing her silks, Ian would be keeping a close eye on it as well. 

He’s in costume for his show, black pants and blue shirt with just a smattering of sparkles on the shoulder, he’s going on pretty damn soon. Ian’s not sure how he manages to do all the stuff he does around here. He’s gotta be running back and forth constantly. 

“Guy’s probably stuck on himself,” Lip observes from where he’s taken up residence beside Ian, leaning against the wall to watch the cats being rolled into the arena.

Ian shrugs, he feels it move his brother’s arm along with his. Knowing he’s got a cig perched in the corner of his mouth, he’s going to step outside in a moment to smoke it and he’ll come back inside just in time to smirk at them from the corner while he and Debbie do the closing dance. Sometimes Ian really fucking hates his brother, “no. He’s not.”

He doesn’t bother responding vocally, just enters a stare-off with him for a moment before he shrugs, cups his hand over his smoke even though they’re indoors, flicks the lighter and backs away, down the hall. 

When Ian hears the doors slam shut, his eyes catch on the center ring. Two tigers tonight. That big golden eyed one and the white one. Same as last show. Maybe he should ask why the other one doesn’t do shows. Maybe if he can get the guy to talk about his tigers, his mind goes to a complete blank as soon as the first word is past Mikhailo’s lips. This guy needs no stage lights, no sequins, no glitz or glamour. 

Fuck. Ian is screwed. 

—————

The show closing dance. It could not be more torturous. Being paired with his sister and unable to keep his eyes off Mikhailo in the bright lights of the arena. Jesus, the music sucks and is annoying, but fuck. The way he moves, the way the lights dance off the perfect skin of his face, the way his eyes sparkle and his smile. It’s not a cheesy show smile. It’s a real smile. When he dips Lou and his eyes land on Ian’s, the smile doesn’t fade. It doesn’t fade until it turns into a cocky smirk, pulling Lou back into his arms and spinning her out for the final move. 

The lights go dim, the crowd is loud and the ringleaders are bidding their goodnights. Exiting in the lines as choreographed but he can feel the man’s presence behind him. Just like earlier, the heat that radiates off him. Ian can feel it spreading off his body and crawling over Ian’s shoulders like an embrace. And he can smell him when he turns his head, takes a deep breath, eyes locking together immediately. He smells, a shiver tingles down his spine, so good. He smells so fucking good, over the popcorn and pretzels and hot dogs. Over the lingering scent of the elephants and the camels and the horses. He smells earthy and musky. Sweat has clung his shirt to his chest, as if he wasn’t obviously perfect before, now it’s become blindingly perfect. When Ian blinks, the bright clear blue of his eyes is replaced in his mind by an image of his fingers unbuttoning that blue shirt, peeling it away from his sweat filmed chest.

He forces his eyes open before his dick decides it’s time to show itself in these tight ass pants. Fuck, he’s going to have to find a place to jerk one later. No way in hell he’ll be able to sleep in the Pace with the images of this man running rampant in his mind without unloading himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a longer chapter for you for the weekend. Eduardo - I love Eddie as a complete weirdo. Sheila - am I the only one that truly thinks she took off in her motorhome and joined the circus? I could see it. The Gallaghers - I'm playing with their ages in case that wasn't already apparent. Lip - is torturing him in the circus endgame or is he going to get fed up and hit the road? 
> 
> What is the true story behind Mickey's fatherhood? He said he doesn't fuck chicks... hmm...
> 
> FEARLESS tats, but what are Mickey's fears? Can Ian navigate his way through all of Mickey's roles to find a place for himself? 
> 
> I won't torture poor lovesick Ian much longer, I promise :) But, you will have to wait until the weekend is over for it.


	10. Juggling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops...

Juggling

 

“What the fuck Iggy?” he takes a step back, shoving Iggy’s hand with the lit cig clamped in it, away from his chest. Where he just fucking burned a fucking hole in the shirt that’s freshly mended.

His idiot brother shrugs, “you walked into me,” he stumbles sideways and leans back against the wall.

“You fuckin’ shitfaced already?”

“No.”

Mickey shoves him and he stumbles back, just barely keeping his feet on the ground, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. You’re s’posed to be on Val duty tonight.”

“Settle down man, I can scoop shit if I’m fuckin’ plastered. Val don’t give a fuck if I smell like a distillery when I pass out in there.”

He grabs for his brother’s collar, dragging him close to his face, “we fuckin’ agreed, last time you pulled this shit, you fuckin’ passed out and forgot to feed her. And we agreed, you’d quit drinkin’ when you’re on cat duty,” releasing his collar to swat him upside the head.

He sort of caves into himself and Mickey immediately feels like a dick. But if it’s the girls or his idiot brother, he’s going to chose the girls every single fucking time.

“Fuck Ig, you’re the only other person Val trusts.”

“Sorry,” it’s slurred and when he reaches up to wipe his hand across his nose, the flask he’s holding tilts and splashes down Mickey’s shirt.

He bites down so hard on his lip he can taste blood, nostrils flared, deep breath in and, “fuck, you fuckin’ idiot, fuck,” he shoves him off to the side, “get fucked. You ain’t takin’ care of Val. Go sleep it off in the cab, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

He watches under the canopy of lights as his figure stumbles off towards the trucks. 

“Fuck,” shaking out his hand, like he’s trying to flick his brother’s problems off his fingertips before they fly up to his buttons and he stalks back into the empty building for some damn running water in a place he won’t run into a damn soul. 

Immediately when he slams the door open he hears a startled, “fuck,” from inside the far stall.

“Fucking motherfucking fuck, I can’t get a fuckin’ second alone for the love of fuck, I just…”

“The love of fuck,” the voice is instantly familiar, and it’s laughing, “yeah, you aren’t the only one looking for a minute alone.”

“Just fuckin’ pinch it off man, for like thirty fuckin’ seconds.”

The laugh is muffled and the stall door opens, his cheeks are pink, pinker than usual anyway. He sighs when his big eyes meet Mickey’s from across the bathroom. Fucking gingers. All fuckin’ alien and, “fuck,” he shoves the shirt in the sink, turning the faucet on full blast, “the fuck you doin’ in there? Cuffin’ the carrot?”

“Beating the bishop.”

“Burpin’ the worm?”

“Charming the cobra.”

“Applyin’ the hand brake?”

“Caulking the bathroom tile.”

“Clearin’ the snorkel?”

“Playing five against one.”

“Tuggin’ the bologna pony?”

“Tenderizing the tube steak.”

“Dancin’ with the dragon?”

His eyes meet Mickey’s in the mirror and he grins, “having the safest sex there is.”

“Fuck,” but he laughs when the kid does, shaking his head to himself, “the fuck you doin’ that in here for?”

He steps up to the sink furthest down the line from where Mickey is scrubbing his shirt, “there are seven of us living in the Pace, have to get it where I can,” his eyes are dropping from Mickey’s face, slowly, like if he does it slowly enough Mickey won’t notice.

“Fair enough,” he pretends he’s not looking. But even if he wasn’t looking, he’d still be able to feel his eyes raking over this body. So, sure, fuck, he flexes a little extra, going at the shirt like he’s scrubbing blood off the carpet after a fuckin’ mass murder.

“So, um, nice show.”

“Yeah, we fuckin’ established that already last stop. Fuck.”

“Sorry, yeah, that was… um, I meant to, well, I guess I could just…”

He drops the shirt and before he can tell himself not to, he’s got Burning Bush backed up against the damn towel dispenser, his hands fisted in his collar to drag him to his level. He doesn’t waste any time prying his way past his lips and Ginger only takes about a split fucking second to gain his bearings and meet Mickey’s tongue at the ridge of his teeth. His big hands slide down his shoulders, landing on his lower back, pulling his body close. 

Fucking fuck, his hands rise goosebumps and tingles, racing each other up Mickey’s spine to the back of his head and then back down again. Raggedy Andy’s face is smooth under Mickey’s fingers, a fresh shave for the show that’s only been over for about an hour. He can feel his jaw working under his touch as the kiss progresses. 

Mickey’s free hand slides to the buttons of his green shirt, smooth and round. The shirt is thin and, “fuck,” he takes a step back. Thumbing his nose and averting his eyes. That was fucking stupid. That’s what that was.


	11. Knife Throwing

Knife Throwing

 

When Ian’s eyes open, he’s gone. Leaving him wondering if he conjured the whole thing. He didn’t hear him leave over the blood rushing in his ears. Well, on the bright side, he was riding out the tingles of a jerked out orgasm when he heard the door open, so that’s taken care of. Even though that kiss started a fire in his belly, he could easily jerk another. The handle of the towel dispenser is digging into his back and if he couldn’t still smell the man’s scent in here, he’d be certain he had made the whole damn thing up. Maybe he should tell Lip to stop lacing the weed.

From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, his entire body feels like it’s alive in ways he’s never felt before. From just a kiss, just a little kiss, a little kiss that ripped the rug right out from under his feet. 

His head feels like it’s floating about a million miles above his shoulders, trying to blink some clarity into his fog, trying like hell to focus on anything else so he doesn’t lock himself in the stall again and beat another. Deep breath, fuck, all that accomplishes is a whiff of Mikhailo in the air entering his nostrils and tingling through his brain. 

“Damn it,” why the fuck did he take off so fast? That kiss answered one question and one question only. Mickey’s attracted to Ian. At least on a surface level. But that kiss rose more questions to add to the list of things he needs to figure out about this guy. 

“Alright,” he turns to tell himself in the mirror, “get it together. You’re a professional circus performer. Focus, breathe, and,” his eyes drop to the sink that his hands have come to grip the ledge of, sure enough there’s a blue show shirt in the basin, “at least I’m not delusional,” he sighs, thinking of Monica and hoping against all hope that her most potent genetic gift will not be passed to her spawn. So far, so good for the oldest three. Three down, three to go. He worries about Carl sometimes, but Carl’s always been just a little different than the rest of the Gallaghers. 

His fingers come into contact with the soaked shirt lying in the sink. Debating, leave it or clean it up himself and bring it back? He starts working it over with his fingers in a way he wishes he could do with the man’s black hair. They contact a pock mark in the fabric and his eyes scan over a cigarette burn. Sheila said she does costuming, but if he brings it to her, then she’ll wonder why he has it. Shit, is this something Debs could patch? She can keep a secret. Not that Ian’s sexuality is a secret, but he has no desire to out a guy he barely knows. He barely knows, he reminds himself of this fact, though his mouth is trying to convince him that he’s felt those lips a million times over and his hands immediately had him convinced they’d wandered the plains of his back for eternity. 

Shit. He squeezes the water out of the shirt gently. Debbie it is. 

The tingles have barely started to recede by the time he walks out of the bathroom, something drawing his attention back out to the main floor. Everything still set up for tomorrow’s shows. Empty of humans, empty of animals. The lingering odor of concessions in the air. The rings are layered in tarps. Most of the apparatus secured for the night. All but one. His eyes are drawn to the aerialist practicing her routine. The silks are light blue, her body lines flawless, black hair hanging loose as she leans her head back and starts swirling gently towards the ground. The silks gracefully clinging to her legs, toes pointed and aimed at the ceiling. She lets herself down to nearly the ground before she starts her climb back up. 

All alone, there’s something pure and raw about her. In the stage lights with the stage make-up and bustle of the other performers, in the practice arena with the same crowd of workers and fellow athletes around her; she is just another one of them. But here, all alone in an empty hall with nothing more than the sound of her motions, and the tricot nylons as she manipulates them with every single muscle on her frame. She is something else completely. This is not a performance of a performer entertaining a crowd. This is a girl. Alone in her head and knowing her body and her limitations. A girl who is seemingly floating above the rest of humanity. Completely at ease and confident in her own skin.

Jesus, she’s just as gorgeous as her brother. 

By the time she twirls back to the ground, nothing more than an Autumn leaf in a gentle breeze; Ian’s legs have gone numb beneath him and his back is tired from standing frozen in one spot. Shit, he should have left, he should have let her have her moment of privacy away from the rest of the world. Shit, maybe if he doesn’t move and doesn’t breathe she won’t notice him. 

She’s busy tying the nylon away for the night, he could sneak out now, he could just…

“Relax Gingersnap,” she tells him without looking his way, “I don’t bite as hard as my brother.”

Busted, he hears himself laugh and he immediately hates the sound of it in the empty arena, “sorry, I…”

“Don't be,” she’s smiling when she turns his way. Wearing nothing more than a plain black leotard with the words ‘goodbye, she said, I’m off to join the circus’ on the body, “it’s a public space.”

“Yeah, but you thought you were alone, and…”

“Please, get off of it, I’m not trying to hide from you. I’m just trying to hide from my overprotective brother, try a new move when he’s not here to worry about it.”

“Well, he’s probably right to worry. Especially when you’re in here alone without any safety…”

“Shut the fuck up,” her eyes lock onto his, the same crystal clear quality of her brother’s, and same cold fear rips down his spine under the same very effective glare.

“Thought you didn’t bite as hard as your brother,” he tries.

A smile breaks her glare as she makes her way towards him, “what are you doing with his shirt?”

Shit. Really busted.

“Um, I just, he left it, um…”

Her hands make for the grab before he can pull it away, “this fucking thing was just mended, what the fuck?! Jesus Christ, fuckin’ Iggy. Sheila is going to…”

“No, um, it’s fine. Debbie can fix it.”

“You can’t just fix cig burns in silk. Fuck.”

“No, it’s fine. I swear, Debbie has fixed cig burns before.”

She looks at him skeptically for a long moment, finally releasing the shirt to his hands again, “fine. But you didn’t answer my question, why do you have it?”

“He, um, he left it in the sink. In the bathroom,” he’s trying like hell to stifle the heat he knows is rising in his cheeks.

Jesus, she might as well be burning though every single layer of his shield with her eyes. His dart away first and she huffs out a laugh, “you’re gay.”

“I,” his eyes meet hers again and she’s smiling, “well, yeah, but that’s…”

“So’s Mickey.”

“So, that’s not…”

“Stop pretending. He’s not, like, in the closet or anything. He just,” she shrugs, “he doesn’t have time for a relationship and he knows better than to hook up with a fellow performer.”

“Wait, what?”

She watches him for a minute, wondering if she wants to share any further, and she shrugs, “you can’t have a casual relationship with someone you’re on the road with eleven months of the year. And his girls, his son, his family; those are the things that will always matter most to him. So a real relationship…”

“Would have to be with someone who understands that.”

“Well, that, and…”

“Can fit into that puzzle.”

She smiles again and he thinks it’s beautiful, “yeah. But he’s,” shrugging, “I don’t know. He’s kind of guarded I guess. Like he just thinks if he puts himself out there he’ll get broken or something.”

“Has that, um, happened? Before?”

She shrugs, “isn’t that just what all kids who are abandoned by their parents feel about relationships?”

“I, well, I,” he thinks about Monica for the second time tonight, “I guess,” he’s holding the wet shirt up tight to his chest like he can’t bear to let it go. It’s warmed up to his body heat but he wishes it was the body heat of the man it belongs to. 

“Alright fellow circus freak,” her hand rises and lands on his shoulder, steering him out of the arena and towards the corridor, where she shrugs on a fuzzy robe that engulfs her thin frame, “first rule for dating my brother: get comfortable with tigers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right boys, you'll have to give me more than physical attraction. But now Ian has an ally with a whole lot of insights into Mickey's life. I'm smellin' the beginning of a beautiful friendship :)


	12. Lion Taming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heard there was no Gallavich in this week's episode... guess we'll have to get our fix on AO3 :)

Lion Taming

 

Fuck. It’s hard to sleep when every single fucking time he closes his eyes, the image of that ginger prick rises in his lids. The feel of his lips and the tingle of his fingertips on his bare flesh. It was like his fucking hands just belonged there, right there on the small of Mickey’s back.

His hand rises, rubs into his eyes, creates spots and blur and swirls of lights, sequins, glitter. Fuck glitter. When his hand falls, it lands on Zlata’s shoulder-blade. She doesn’t stir. It took some coaxing to get her into Val’s container. The containers are each their own space. The space they need away from one another. But Mickey don’t like leaving any of them alone all night. Ollie ain’t picky about who stays close. The mattress on the far side of her container just gotta have a familiar scented body in it. Fuckin’ Colin usually ends up with her, but she don’t mind Mandy, or Lou, or Iggy. Val’s a stubborn bitch, and he’s been working so fucking hard for the last year to gain her full trust that he ain’t about to break it. It’s him or it’s Iggy. No one else.

Zlata, she ain’t the pickiest and she don’t mind bein’ alone. It’s just Mickey who don’t want her alone. Just in fucking case, ‘course he could have had Iggy sleep outside her door. But that dumb fuck, he don’t deserve the love of the girls if he can’t respect the rules. 

Better off overprotective than losing them. 

His hand slides over her smooth coat, eyes lingering on her perfect markings. She is a beautiful woman, all three of them are. They’re the most beautiful women Mickey has ever seen. Too bad when his damn eyes close, it’s that fuckin’ ginger again. Ian Gallagher. Alright, well, laying in the container with two girls, it ain’t a great place to slay the dragon. 

He sits up, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness to find Val across the way. And she is wide awake. Bitch.

“What’re you doin’ over there?”

Her chin is resting on her sore paw. These fucking shows, the years on their bodies being on pavement and cement and surfaces that are so far fucking removed from their natural habitat. And sure, Zlata and Ollie have been Mickey’s since they were babies so they’ve had the containers with their special grass, dirt, and sand shipped from their home territory. Not that either of them ever saw their home territory. Zlata was born in the circus, her mother belonged to the Bodnars who used to put on one hell of a show before the mister ended up succumbing to cancer, leaving Ms B alone for a few years. She was somethin’ else, she still is, she just prefers to take care of the cats behind the scenes now. 

And Ollie’s mom had been captured by poachers, little did they know she was pregnant when they killed her. Sick fuckers. They skinned her mom and left her kittens out to starve. Probably because their hides were too small or somethin’ fucked. If not for a nearby villager hearing her crying in the night they’d have lost her. Her siblings didn’t make it. Dying breed. 

Well, they didn’t technically belong to Mickey when they were babies. But he’s known them that long. 

And then there’s Val. He gets to his feet, steps over Zlata who groans and stretches, “not now girl. Go back to sleep,” moving over to Val, taking a seat beside her. He offers his hand for her to sniff, but she doesn’t take the bait. He leaves it open on his knee, “what can I do for you, huh? How can I make you happy?”

She sighs, eyes rolling towards him slowly, “I know. It’s the life, huh? You been doin’ this shit how long now? Town to town, show to show, gawker to gawker. And you didn’t have it easy did you? The first five years, they were hard ones, huh? I know,” he sighs, leaning back against the wall, letting his mind wander to his father. Fuck him, fuck him for selling them. Fuck him for only visiting when he needs money. Fuck him for putting yet another child in this world that he won’t take care of. Fuck him especially for beating on them. Fuck. His breath shudders and Val’s nose nudges into his hand immediately, “I’m okay,” turning his hand to slide over her head, “just thinking. That’s all. You too, huh? Just thinking. Can’t turn this thinker off sometimes, that it? Shit, I know how that goes,” she’s creeping over on her belly, pushing her way towards him until she’s practically in his lap, her head on his thigh, “yeah, I know how that goes. Try so hard to forget some shit, it ends up being the only shit you can remember,” leaning his head back against the wall, letting her presence overcome him from his hand through his body, wishing he could take her pain and make it his own. 

—————

He wakes stiff-necked and sore to the feel of a warm slimy tongue in his palm. When he groans, Zlata only takes it as an invitation to move her kisses to his neck. His hand rises and shoves her away, “get outta here.”

She snorts, snuffling into his ear until he squirms and twists away from her. It only eggs her on, snorting against him as he rolls onto his side, bending around Val to try hiding. She groans, stretches out but not to block him, “bitch,” only to get in on the action, “fine,” he can’t stifle the uncontrollable laughter that happens when they’re both snuffing at his neck and chuffing into his ears, “fuck,” squirming again to get away from their affection, “fine, I’ll get your breakfast,” he sighs, “coulda let me sleep for like ten more minutes,” rubbing at his eyes until Zlata nudges his elbow and rubs her side along his face, “fuck, I got it, can’t wait ten more minutes, clearly you’re undernourished and mistreated and neglected,” he pats her ribs gently until she falls to her side, rolling to her back to give him her belly, “alright, alright, but only for like ten seconds,” watching his fingers making a path through her white and black striped belly fur. Fuck, he loves when they chuff, it never ceases to rise a smile on his face, “see Val?” he watches her while he pats Zlata’s belly, “see, I ain’t so bad, am I Zlata? I ain’t so bad at all.”

It’ll happen eventually. He knows it will. She’s getting closer every day, closer to this, this kind of trust. But he won’t force it, “whenever you’re ready,” he reminds her, giving Zlata one more pat, “up we go, let’s eat.”

—————

Fed, watered, run around the pen before the crisp morning starts to turn bright and clear. Mickey’s sitting on the top rail of the pen when Zlata leans back on her haunches, warning him of an incoming unknown.

He turns his head, immediately wishing it was anyone else, his thumb rises, tracing the ridge of his nose.

“Morning,” Scarlet Fever offers, not stopping until he’s next to Mickey. Way too fuckin’ close, what is it with this guy and his lack of caring for personal space?

“Yah. Morning,” he sighs, “look, about last night…”

“Don’t,” his hands rise to offer a folded, freshly washed and pressed shirt, “Debbie patched the hole. You left in in the sink. I just,” he shrugs and his eyes meet Mickey’s, like he’s reaching down his throat and pulling his heart out, “I mean I know how costumes go, so if it’s fixable, then fix it and wear it until it falls apart. Shit’s expensive.”

Accepting the shirt, “what, uh, what’d she put over the burn hole? Better not be some big fuckin’ sequin or some shit.”

“You could just try ‘thank you’.”

“Fuck you.”

“Or that,” his eyes shift from Mickey’s to the cats, but he’s got a light smile gracing the corners of his lips. This guy don’t scare off easy. Fuck.

“Well fuck me,” he takes a deep breath when his eyes fall on a tiny coat of arms of the Ukrainian National Republic, yellow stitching over a blue patch. The seam is practically invisible.

His eyes dart over to Ginger’s, but he’s looking down at the ground now, bright red ears.

“Uh, thanks. Or thanks to your sister, or fuckever.”

“She loves doing that kind of stuff. We just figured, you know since you speak to the tigers in Ukrainian, it just, you know, made sense.”

“Yeah. My ma was straight off the boat. But we were born Southside. Then when Ma died,” he shrugs, “guess kids ain’t worth keepin’ sometimes. Fuckever, what’s your life story Big Red?”

“It’s not very interesting,” he sighs, his hands fall open where they’ve come to rest on the gate, “born and raised Southside Chicago.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah. When Fiona was nine, there was a group of performers putting on free clinics at the community center. My mom, Monica, she came rolling into town like the hurricane that she is, brought Fi to the classes for six months. The longest she’d stayed with us for probably my entire childhood. Well, we have Debs to show for it. But there’s like, these moments when Frank is actually a good dad. They’re few and far between, but he saw how much Fi loved the acrobatics and he just kind of kept going with her. Eventually she got us all interested and, I don’t know, just kind of stuck, I guess,” his breath halts, Mickey can hear it cut off in his throat when Ollie starts making her way over and stops right in front of him. Nothing but metal rails between them.

“It’s recessive,” he hears himself explain, “her white coat. Zoos maintain the gene by inbreeding. Keeps causin’ fucked up shit like cleft palate, scoliosis, mental issues. But Oleksandra was born in the wild. Her brother and sister were the normal Bengal colors, but Ollie here,” he reaches through and scratches her ears while she stares down Ian’s hand, “go ‘head,” he coaxes her, this time in English, “he ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

She eagerly takes the permission and starts sniffing at his freckled hand. Mickey’s focus shifts from her to his face. A childlike look of wonder and awe sparkling across his eyes.

“She’s the attention slut of the bunch,” falling into Ukrainian when he tells her, “aren’t you? Diva, go ahead, sniff him out, let me know what you think. He don’t seem too scary to me.”

She responds by flipping his hand with her nose and rubbing against it until he sets it, palm down on her head, “holy shit.”

“First time with a pussy or what?” he smirks.

“Fuck you,” laughing, “I didn’t expect her to be this soft.”

His eyebrow rises and the idiot blushes even deeper red, backtracking, “well, I mean, I just, it’s not,” he startles but doesn’t jump away when she chuffs at Mickey as his hand scratches her chin, “what the fuck was that noise?”

“They don’t purr. They ain’t exactly house cats. That’s her purr.”

“No way.”

“Well, like I said, Ollie’s an attention whore. She don’t hold back,” his eyes fall over to Zlata who is giving Redwood the stare-down. Val, she’s lying down again, chin on her paw.

“So, you’re not exactly a typical animal handler.”

He shrugs, “I learned from the best. And this circus, Rocky runs a tight ship, she ain’t about to let anyone abuse an animal under her watch. Valentyna, her previous owner,” his voice chokes off thinkin’ about it and his thumb rises to his nose, “he was a piece of shit. But we’re workin’ on it. She’s comin’ around.”

“Valentyna,” he motions towards her, “she’s, um, the one you were running with the other night?”

“Shit. Saw that?”

“Yeah. But don’t worry, we won’t report you to the DNR or whatever. It was only Fiona and me. I get it. They need some space to run too,” his hand has relaxed on Ollie’s head, “so, um, how do I touch her?” turning pink again, “all jokes aside,” clarifying, “I just don’t want to get my fingers chewed off.”

“You’re doin’ just fine. Ollie’ll soak up whatever you give her. Long as you don’t startle her, she’ll love you forever just for standing here admiring her.”

“What about the other two then?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he elbows him, “you wanna pet my pussies you start with the easy one. Work your way up.”

The freckles are all doused by the blush when he smiles, “there is no way to do this without sex jokes?”

“Well, sure, but where would the fun be in that?”

“Why is it called a pussy anyway? I mean, a pussy is just a cat. Not like specifically a female cat. And a cock, a cock is male. Doesn’t make much sense. It’s not like they really resemble a cat, do they?”

“You askin’ me?”

“Well I’ve never gotten up close and personal with a woman like that.”

“Neither have I,” he admits. That was way too fuckin’ easy. What the fuck is it with this kid? Like all his instincts to keep himself to himself just fly out the window when those green eyes land on his.

“Your son though.”

“Yeah, well, that’s different. He, uh,” his fingers rise, grinding into his eyes, not knowing a way out of this but he just don’t feel like talkin’ about it. Saved by Zlata, she stalks over, nuzzling against Ollie to get her attention and start a play fight. Slipping into their language to warn ‘em, “alright ladies. There’s enough love to go ‘round. Thanks for that distraction,” when Zlata rubs against the bars in front of them.

“Yo Mick, got a change in the line-up that effects you,” comes the familiar voice of Kev from behind them.

“Fuckin’ what now?”

“Well, not permanently, just for the next few shows. But, your fire dancing with Lou was a big hit last night. Almost as much social media buzz as the cats. So Rocky wants to move her. You are back-to-back, man.”

“What? How the fuck’s that work?”

“I guess you just trust someone else to get the girls out on stage. You’ll have enough time to get changed between acts. We can throw Tommy and Kermit out for a few minutes of distracting the crowd with shitty jokes.”

He doesn’t respond, he’s too busy grinding into his eyes at the thought of trusting someone else, anyone else, to get the girls out of the pen, into their carts, and to the ring without incident, “no.”

“No what?”

“No. Ain’t happenin’.”

His hand comes down to clamp Mickey’s shoulder, “you don’t really have a choice.”

“Fuck I don’t,” hopping off the gate, hollering, “yo Collin, get your ass over here,” as he storms off towards the owner’s bus, “watch them.”

—————

“Well, it’s not like I give a fuck Pretty Boy. Put me on first, put me on last, don’t make a damn difference. Can’t blame me for that shit though, it’s only the addition of you, which you volunteered for in case you forgot, that’s got the crowd all up in arms for my act,” she reminds him very nonchalantly. 

“Okay then you talk to Rocky. She sure in the fuck ain’t listenin’ to me.”

“What the fuck makes you think she’d listen to me?”

“You’re pretty much her daughter.”

“And you’re pretty much her son. But a dime’s a dime no matter who you are. Just, ask for a longer interlude. I’ll help you get the girls out. Your brothers are perfectly capable of getting them to the carts without issue, that’s why they’re here ain’t it? You can wear the same damn costume, just strip the pyro accessories and get movin’. Show ain’t gonna go on without you,” she shrugs, “but you gotta stop spreadin’ yourself so thin. Make one of your skeezy brothers take a damn shower and guide Mandy. She’s been doing the silks for how many years now? She’s fuckin’ fine up there. You just got yourself convinced that she needs you and you only.”

“Trusted you the other day.”

“And no one died.”

He’s gnawing on his lower lip as he looks her over, “guidin’ Mandy ain’t the current problem.”

“Nah, but it’s one of the many ongoing problems, ain’t it?”

“It ain’t a fuckin’ problem at all, alright?”

“Fuck,” she shakes out her hand like she’s either going to fist up and punch him or she’s about to go on for practice, “you gotta let that shit go,” she turns, about to walk out to the arena, changing her mind and storming back over, both hands land violently on his shoulders, the fire in her blue eyes much more fear inducing than any stage fire could ever be, “it was not your fault. It was not my fault. It was not the rigger’s fault. It was just a shitty piece of equipment and if you wanna take it out on someone go hunt down the crew that was working in the plant the day that particular piece was molded. Otherwise, get the fuck over it. This is the circus, in case you forgot, shit happens Love.”

This time she does storm off, and he mumbles anyway, “didn’t have to happen though.”

—————

“What the fuck?” the ginger idiot is still standin’ right where he fuckin’ left him about a half hour ago. Now he’s talkin’ to Colin, “you just gonna try your luck the whole way down the Milkovich family tree, see which one’ll fuck you first? Fuck.”

“Relax Mick, he’s just askin’ about the cats and shit. The fuck crawled up your ass and died?”

Jesus fuck, Redwood looks like Mickey just reached out and smacked him. His fingers rise to grind his lids, “fuck, just give us a minute Colin.”

By the time he opens his eyes, blinks away the spots and finds that red beacon, Colin’s long gone. Fucker won’t make eye contact now, s’pose he should fuckin’ apologize, that sounded pretty damn shitty, “look, I’m a fuckin’ prick, alright? Like all the fuckin’ time. And I can’t tell if you’re a fuckin’ obsessed fan or someone who’s just fuckin’ bored outta their damn head but I ain’t got time to figure it out either. So you gotta…”

Fucker cuts him off by kissing him. That was not what he was fuckin’ expectin’. Jesus, fuck, and he’s warm and he’s basically attacking his damn mouth with his tongue and lips and teeth and it’s fuckin’ sexy as hell and for some fuckin’ reason Mickey can’t back out of it. Even though he knows it’s fuckin’ stupid on so many fucking levels. 

Fucking fuck, he’s turning into putty beneath Copper Nob’s hands as they trail down his back, landing in that same damn spot they landed last night and pressing. Pressing until there is no fucking space between their bodies. Mickey can feel his hands rising, finding the handle of Ian’s jaw, angling his head to get even fucking deeper. If that’s fucking possible. 

And it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop even though tingles are ripping through his core and his skin is goose-bumped to all fucking hell, and he can’t fucking breathe. The ground is gone and the air is gone, blood is rushing in his ears enough that he can’t hear a damn thing. He can feel Ian’s hands and he can feel his mouth, and tongue. And that’s fuckin’ all. 

That’s all until he hears one of the cats sneeze. And he breaks away. But doesn’t back up completely. He can’t, ‘cause somewhere along the way Ian’s hand made it’s way to the back of Mickey’s head and it’s just cradling him there. 

“I’m neither of those things,” his voice is quiet, confident, and his breath is traveling across MIckey’s lips, making him want to lean in again, “I’m really fucking attracted to you, I’m not going to lie about that. I’d fuck you right here right now if there weren’t three giant tigers looking at me like they’ll rip my head off if I do anything to you that they don’t approve of,” his lips twist up into a smile and Mickey can feel it, “but I don’t want to do that yet. I want to do all the cheesy shit, like get to know you first. And get to know your girls, and your family. I want to know what makes you laugh because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I want to know what makes you mad, so I can avoid it, because you’re kind of really fucking intimidating. I want to know what makes you smile, fuck, I even want to know what makes you sad just so I can make you not sad anymore,” he chuckles and it takes every fucking fiber of control for Mickey to not dive in again, “but right now, I want to assure you that your brother knows a lot about these cats and he’s pretty confident that he has their transport under control for the show tonight. And it’s not like I know him as well as you do, but if he’s been working with them as long as you have, then he knows the drill, okay?”

His hands land palm down on Redwood’s chest, pushing him back, “fuck you, you nosy fuck,” but he can’t stifle the smile that’s rising. And the dipshit is smiling back at him, making his heart flutter all the way up into his damn throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White tigers don't exist in the wild anymore. That is truth about zoos inbreeding for the white coat. Fucked up.
> 
> This work keeps stalling out on me, but I like this atmosphere, so we'll get there eventually!


	13. The Mystic

The Mystic

 

“Well they sure ain’t nothin’ like house cats. Special diet, usually horse meat in the bagged food. Deer meat more often than anything else when they get the raw stuff. Certain grasses and berries they like. Try to make it as natural as possible for ‘em,” he’s squatted beside the big one, brushing her coat gently, chasing the brush with his hand on every single stroke. 

“How long have you known them?”

“Zlata was born when I was eighteen. I wasn’t handlin’ tigers then, but I had a case of the oohs and aahs over old Mr Bodnar. The Mr and Mrs used to do the show. Man, they were somethin’. I grew up watchin’ Zlata’s mom with the two of them. They bred her only once in her life. It was with a zoo tiger and the agreement was that the zoo keep the rest of the liter. So her brothers are in San Diego. We visit twice a year.”

“Do you breed them?”

“Fuck no, man. They go through enough for me. Ain’t gonna force ‘em to have babies then give ‘em away,” gaze flitting across the baby who is passed out like a tiny drunk in his bouncy swing.

“What will you do, um, you know,” his voice trails off, it’s way too early to ask that question, “how old are they then?”

“What’ll I do when they die?” his blue eyes dart over to Ian, he’s wearing a pained expression but he shrugs, “hang up my costumes and get a real job. Life expectancy is 12-16 years. Zlata is seven, Val six and Ollie five.”

He survived six shows now letting his brothers handle the transport from pen to ring. Mandy warned Ian already, Mickey’s slow to trust. Seems he has every right to be. Mom dies and the one person left biologically programmed to love them sold them to the circus. She told him that Mickey’s only long term relationship with a guy didn’t go well, long distance stereotypically doesn’t, but turns out the guy was cheating on him for basically their entire two years together. She didn’t have any more to say about his dating life. 

At least Frank didn’t sell them. Sometimes he hates having him along for the ride, but he’s there. He’s drunk ninety percent of the time, but he’s there and that counts for something. That’s more than Monica can handle.

He sighs, falling silent and just watching. The expression on his face when he’s with his tigers. Closed in a pen with three tigers, and he’s nothing but calm. Val is stretched out, soaking up some sun. Ollie is laying on her belly, lazily batting at a ball with her big paw. And Zlata is getting all the attention and adoration she can stand. She groans when he pats her side, saying something to her as she rolls over to show her belly for a good scratching then offers her other side for him to brush.

“When they lay belly-up they don’t necessarily want to be scratched, sometimes they’re just lettin’ you know they’re comfortable with you.”

“How do you know the difference?”

He shrugs, “usually by the expression on their faces.”

When the baby in the swing gurgles and grunts, face turning red, Ian sighs, “I know that expression,” walking over to take him by the armpits as he blinks sleep out of his eyes, they’re big and blue and beautiful, “hey buddy, how was your nap? Did you make a big poo?”

“You don’t gotta do…”

“I got this. It feels like ages since Liam was a baby, but I’ve got practice,” he smiles, drawing the blob of warmth and love into his chest, “if that’s okay with you little guy,” he leans into his round head instinctively to take a long inhale of baby scent. Maybe the only thing he misses about that stage, “where’s the changing table?”

He’s looking around, like he’s looking for someone to bail him out, but Ian is standing right here offering to bail him out, “fuck, you don’t gotta change my kid’s diaper.”

“I’d rather do that than be trusted with the tigers at this point,” he shrugs, “besides,” gaze shifting to the baby, “he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Man, that’s…”

“Just accept some goddamn help,” it comes out more forceful than he expected and Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Ian could swear Zlata is smiling when she looks at him. 

“Well, okay then,” his hand slides across his nose before it points towards the trailer at Ian’s back, “directly to the left after you walk in the door.”

He leaves the door open, just in the case of not really knowing the baby well yet, and he doesn’t want him to start crying when a stranger is changing his diaper behind closed doors, “this is the way we change a diaper, change a diaper, change a diaper. This is the way we change a diaper so early in the mornin’,” he sings to keep the baby entertained. He is fucking adorable, there’s no denying that. Immediately going for the toe grab upon wiping, “this is the way we eat our toes, eat our toes, eat our toes,” the giggle is more like a squeaky toy and it makes Ian smile, “alright, there you go buddy,” it’s the damn clothing at this stage that’s the hardest. When they’re still half asleep the change isn’t bad, but by the time they’ve been woken up by a diaper change, the arguing with clothes, trying to flip to his belly and crawl away, “hey you, let’s get those pants back on so your legs don’t get cold, huh?” okay, so he misses the big fat baby legs too. Fist rising to his mouth aggressively, “hungry? Of course you are, you just emptied out huh?”

“Baby cereal on the counter next to the sink.”

Shit, he didn’t think he was being loud enough for him to hear every single word. 

When he comes back out with the baby on his hip and a handful of cereal for him to pick at, those crystal clear blues land on his face, expression soft and thoughtful. It’s Ollie who slinks over first, getting between them and sitting back on her haunches watching the baby.

“She wants to sniff him. But you gotta wait Ol, let him eat,” he falls into Ukrainian.

Ian finds himself just standing here listening. The cadence and flow of the words he can’t understand but the pattern and the way they exit his lips, it sounds so beautiful. He could be swearing up a storm and Ian would have no idea save for the expression on his face. He’s just a soft-hearted guy in an intimidating shell, isn’t he?

“So, you, uh, take care of your siblings then?”

“Yeah,” the baby’s head turns towards his voice so he kisses his nose, “well I was five when Debbie was born. Seven for Carl and fifteen for Liam.”

“Said before that your mom doesn’t hang around often?”

“No. She’s bipolar. And like the fun kind that doesn’t medicate, so she just doesn’t know how I guess, how to stay,” he shrugs and the baby’s little hand flails up to his lips, grabbing his top lip and pinching, “hey now, that’s a little uncalled for,” smiling through it, pretending he’s going to eat his finger. 

“Yeah, he’s been gettin’ really good at all that grabby shit. Here, I can take him.”

“He’s fine. Aren’t you? Yevgeny, right?”

“It was like, Svet’s dad’s name or somefuck.”

And he’s not going to ask, he’s going to wait, when Mickey wants to tell him how the baby is only sort of his then he’ll tell him. Ian is going to take this whole thing slow. They’ve got time. They’ve got until December on the road, headed West then Southwest, ending the year in Vegas for a week of shows. He’s been hearing buzzing about Vegas shows. It sounds like that’s where the circus makes the most money, and some kind of adults-only thing that really brings in some cash. Ian hasn’t asked much about it yet, Fiona told him to cool his jets, that his curiosity gets annoying sometimes and he needs to just wait. 

But, “he ain’t mine biologically,” guess he won’t have to wait for that.

When he looks back over towards him, he’s leaning against the rail, still inside the pen and reaching over to run his hand over the baby’s head. He’s smiling, gaze remaining on Yevgeny, “my dad, he’s, uh, well a piece of shit. He comes around from time to time tryin’ to get money from us and make promises he ain’t ever followed through on. Guess you know the type if your mom is in and outta your life. Well, uh, last time he was around he left us a gift,” his thumb tucks under the chubby chin, lingering there as he studies the boy’s face, “a little Tub o’ Love gift. And I don’t know, I just couldn’t let him have any claim to this little life. He’s already got four he don’t care for, why add a fifth?”

Now his eyes dart over to Ian’s, they’re misty but they hold contact long enough that Ian can’t fucking stop himself. Leaning towards his lips, perfect pillow soft lips. He hasn’t tried to kiss him again since the other night when he just sort of dove without restraint. This time there is restraint. If for no other reason than the baby on his hip. Or his logical side forcing restraint because this can linger, and it can take time, and it can move slowly. And maybe, “you want to go out on a date sometime?”

He snickers, backing away with amusement sparked in his eyes, “yeah, sure. Soon as the season’s over.”

“No, I don’t mean like a sit down dinner or some shit like that. I mean, like we could get away for an hour or two next city, just check out the downtown, grab lunch. It won’t kill either of us to skip a practice session, will it?”

“Go fuckin’ buffalo gazin’ in Rapid City?”

Smiling, with a shrug, “sure. If that’s what you want to do.”

“I ain’t goin’ to Mt Rushmore.”

“Good. Neither am I,” absently rubbing his cheek against the baby’s soft head.

“Alright, you got yourself a deal then Firecrotch. Just let me make sure I got someone around for the girls.”


	14. Night Shows

Night Shows

 

It ain’t the worst date Mickey’s ever been on. A fuckin’ train ride through the Black Hills. That’s what this ginger dope chose. Fucker. Like they don’t sit around in trucks all the fuckin’ time. But it ain’t bad, it’s not often Mickey actually gets to see the sights. Travel at night. Roll into a town in the early morning, set up, practice, do the shows, take down, hit the road. So seeing some of this shit, who knew there was beautiful countryside in South Dafuckingkota? Mickey sure in the fuck didn’t. Last year they did take the scenic route through the Badlands, and yeah that shit is fucking incredible. Just driving along all this flat boring shit and then all of a sudden it’s like a giant took a big old bite out of the Earth and left it jagged and layered, and Mickey ain’t never seen colors like that in nature before. 

The train is all old-timey and a total fucking tourist trap, but, well, they’re fuckin’ tourists. It’s a two hour ride, but it don’t take long to realize that the real scenery is the damn expression on Ian’s face. Of all the damn luck, how’d this end up this way? A goddamn ginger high wire walker. God or Fate or whothefuckever certainly had themselves a damn laugh when they dropped this gift on Mickey’s doorstep.

When his hand finds Mickey’s between them on the seat, he don’t stop him from sliding his fingers through. Fuck, they’re warm but not like the kind of warm that makes Mickey squirm. They’re like the kind of warm that makes him want to feel them all the time. Like that kind of warmth that emits from the fireplace on New Year’s Eve up at the place in BC every year. The kind that makes him want to sit in front of it year round and just relax. Cup of hot chocolate, a book, and all the damn space in the world for the girls to wander. The one month out of the year that makes the other eleven worth it. 

Fuck.

They ain’t talkin’ much. Maybe there ain’t a reason to talk. Maybe none of this needs words. It feels just fuckin’ fine that way. And maybe Mickey could use this. Time and space to be away from his life, from the circus and the girls, and his son. From the lights and the rigging, the family. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he went for more than an hour without bein’ around one of those things. 

And this, well, the two hours went by way too fuckin’ quickly and when the train stops at the station and the rest of the passengers are de-boarding, he lifts that pale hand that’s been gripped in his all morning, presses it against his lips and hears himself whisper, “thank you.”

—————

“Well don’t you look like you just spent two hours at a spa?” Lou’s sittin’ on the edge of the rail watchin’ Iggy sweep out the pen.

All three of them catch his scent immediately and make their way over, “yeah, yeah, I missed you too,” hands being attacked in kisses and nudges. A chorus of chuffs bringing a smile to his face, wondering towards Lou, “Val been okay today?”

“Ms B was here and gone. Said she’s lookin’ just perfect and show-ready. Long as you are,” she turns her head away from the tigers to flick her lighter. They ain’t afraid of her lighter, but fire and cats never mix, so bein’ on the safe side ain’t a problem. When her head turns back towards him, she’s got a brow up, scanning him over. 

“What?”

“Nothin’,” shrugging, jumping off the rail and purposely walking into his shoulder on her way by, “you deserve some relaxation from time to time,” as she saunters off, “just glad to see you take the opportunity.”

He doesn’t even have the bite to tell her to fuck off. Leaning into Ollie’s face when she offers, letting the feel of her softness invade and calm the bits of worry that he knows were unnecessary while he was away. 

“Alright, you high maintenance bitches ready for some shows?”

—————

He sort of hates how quickly the girls and Yev have taken to Burning Bush. And he really fucking hates how clearly he can feel the fucker’s eyes on him while he’s performing. Mickey’s pretty fucking sure he could pinpoint every single location exactly at every single moment his contact is lingering. And when the fire dance is over, and he’s rushing back to remove the pyro gear, walking beside the carts to talk the girls up for the show, that ginger fucker is waiting in the doorway. He smiles, takes a tight hold on Mickey’s arm and pulls him over to kiss his temple sweetly before releasing and making him walk out with butterflies in his gut. 

And fuck, he hates the closing dance. He hates that shit so much. And it ain’t for Lou and her limp bodied stoner bends. It ain’t for the lights and the crowd. Not tonight. It’s for his goddamn eye contact making it so fucking hard to concentrate. It’s for the way it feels to be under his gaze, like he’s fuckin’ floatin’ and when it’s over and they’ve exited stage and the place is dark and the girls are back in their containers for the night and he’s standin’ outside watching the early summer sky turning into night and he feels him approaching, well, he really fucking hates that. He hates it, knowing this guy so fucking quickly, knowing his presence and his scent. Picking up on him like a fucking predator on prey and he don’t have to say a fucking word. 

And he fucking hates how easy it is. How easy it is to fall into his lips and be overtaken with his heat. The way it sparks through his every nerve and brings his heart to his throat and butterflies flapping wildly in his gut again and he fucking hates how it all feels so goddamn right. And it feels way too fucking easy.

Fuck, he hates that he don’t have to say a fucking word, this fucker already knows his body like a damn road he’s travelled a million times over. He don’t have to make a sound or give him a single command, it’s like his hands just already know. And his tongue just already knows. And yeah, when he drops to his knees in the gravel on the far side of the truck where no one can see them, he fucking hates how fucking quickly he gets Mickey off with his mouth. 

And what he hates the fucking most, what he hates the motherfucking most, is that the idiot gets to his feet with a smile, it’s fucking smug around the edges, and before Mickey can even blink the stars out of his eyes the shithead is backing away, disappearing without letting him return the favor. 

Fucker.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments appreciated!


End file.
